


Of Swans and Horses : Queen of the Riddermark

by Lynnwood



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Rohirrim Being Awesome, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 15:02:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3900616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynnwood/pseuds/Lynnwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For his people and their continued survival after the War of the Ring, Éomer King, Lord of the Riddermark, agrees to take to wife the daughter of the Prince of Dol Amroth. Can these two very different people learn to coexist? Learn to love?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue : Blind Alliances

**Author's Note:**

> Another of my popular fics previously published on fanfiction.net. Also another that I've not updated in a while, but I still thought I'd share here. This isn't the end of it, there IS more to the story. Just gotta get around to writing it. :P

_Edoras, Rohan_

_August 12 th of the year 3019 T.A._

            The War of the Ring was ended.

            On May 1st of the year 3019 of the Third Age, the White City of Minas Tirith crowned her first King in many ages, once again uniting the lands of Gondor and Arnor. He was Lord Aragorn, King Elessar, son of Arathorn and Chieftain of the Dunadain, direct descendant of Númenor.

            For months afterward, the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth began the long process of healing the wounds of their world and rebuilding it in peace and prosperity. Some had an easier time of it than others. To the north, the land of the Horse-Lords was one of the hardest hit, and in the gravest need after the shadow of Mordor had fled. The Men of Dunland and Isengard’s Uruk-hai had decimated the Westfold, where many of their settlements lay. What the Uruks and the Dunlendings did not steal they burned to the ground. The Rohirrim were in sore need of aid. What little remained of their livestock and farms would not be able to sustain them. They had survived the War of the Ring, but it looked as though the mighty _Éorlingas_ were doomed to starve to death in the coming winter.

            It was this sordid predicament that weighed most heavily on the mind of young Éomer, newly crowned King of the Riddermark. He sat in the Golden Hall of Meduseld, in the seat of his uncle, and worried on the days ahead of him. He had announced the betrothal of his sister to the newly named Prince of Ithilien, Lord Faramir, just two days past. Éowyn was hopelessly in love with the gentle Steward and vice-versa, and Éomer himself had no objections to the match. Save that her departure for Ithilien would leave him all alone in this great hall, with no one but his own troubles for company. Yet he wished Éowyn every bit of the joy and happiness that she had been unable to find in her homeland, forever in doubt and despair.

            Now it seemed that fate was to become his own.

            Not for the first time Éomer wished that his uncle had survived the Battle of Pelennor. In his heart, Éomer did not see himself as a King. He was a warrior, had always been a warrior. He was the son of the Chief Marshal of the Mark, he had grown up fighting battles and waging war. The only worries he’d ever had were staying alive from one day to the next. All that had begun to change at Théodred’s death, however, when _he_ became the new heir of the Rohirrim. Now his uncle had gone to the halls of their forefathers, and the responsibilities of his people were instead thrust upon _his_ shoulders. His people were looking to him to ease their suffering and come up with a solution to their plight. Éomer sat in Meduseld and listened to the never-ending council of every knowledgeable advisor and well-meaning Lord—from the Fords of Isen to the Mouths of Entwash—and fervently wished he could just mount Firefoot and ride hell for leather to the Fenmarch instead. Far, far away from Edoras and her never-ending woes.

            Yet he could not. He was his father’s son, his uncle’s nephew. Descended from King Eorl, the first King of the Riddermark. He would do his duty. If only he could figure out just how he was supposed to go about it, and still keep his people alive and his own sanity intact.

            “You look troubled, Éomer King,” a deep voice suddenly called, tinged with just a touch of humor, startling the young man out of his miserable reverie. He looked up to find Aragorn—now King Elessar of Gondor—standing to the side of one of the great wooden beams of the hall, leaning against it with his arms crossed negligently. He was dressed in fine velvets and silks now instead of the rough-traveled leather and mail, and his hair was clean and freshly cut to his shoulders, his beard newly trimmed rather than dirt-encrusted and stained with old blood. Yet Éomer still saw more of the fierce Ranger of the North in Aragorn than he did the mighty King of Gondor, for all that he had witnessed his coronation only three months ago himself.

            Éomer sighed loudly at Aragorn’s bait, but did not rise to it. He merely shook his head, reclining back in the great throne. He had cleared the hall only moments before with a fierce growl that had sent all of his advisors fleeing for cover. None had dared brave his wrath by reentering, until now. Frustration and annoyance gnawed at him. Desperation was setting in.

            “I am not a King, Aragorn, for all that fate and my blood has made me such,” he heaved, speaking his dark thoughts aloud. Éomer didn’t watch Aragorn’s approach, but he knew that the Númenorian drew nearer to the throne nonetheless. Instead he kept his troubled gaze on the stones at his feet. “My people look to me to make their troubles go away, and I would do it. Only . . . I know not what can be done. If anything. Are we to survive the shadows of Mordor for naught?”

            Éomer lifted his gaze at last, and met the solemn Aragorn’s soulful gray eyes with his own desperate ones. “The Westfold is in ruin. My people will starve to death, come the winter.”

            There was a slight pause, then, “the Oath of Eorl has been renewed, my friend,” Elessar spoke softly. “The lands of Gondor would gladly give all that was needed to her ally in the north.”

            Éomer made a face, a slight snarl of displeasure setting loose from his lips. “Charity? The Rohirrim would rather die than accept it. My people will not take gifts given for no reason. They are too stubborn and too proud.”

            “And what if there _was_ a reason?” a new voice suddenly questioned.

            Éomer turned to see Lord Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, enter the hall from the other side. The older man had earned his trust and friendship during the march on the Black Gate and the Battle of Morannon. Éomer’s brow rose in question, not sure where the Prince was going with his train of thought. Aragorn didn’t look surprised at Imrahil’s sudden appearance, so that must mean that the two men had already discussed whatever plan was being brought to fruition. While he might chafe at his future being discussed without him, at this point he was open to anything.

            “What reason would you be suggesting?” he questioned carefully. Imrahil drew in a deep breath, then,

            “It is not uncommon for riches—in your case precious-needed foodstuffs and supplies for the winter to come—to be exchanged as . . . a betrothal dower.”

            Éomer sat back in the throne, stunned. In his silence, Imrahil eagerly continued.

            “I have a daughter, as you know. I believe my sons have spoken of her to you. Lothíriel is twenty, soon to be twenty-one, only eight years younger than you. She is her mother’s daughter, my lord, descended of Númenorian Kings, passing fair of face and more than fair of demeanor. It has been said one would be hard pressed to find a more gentle soul in the whole of Middle-Earth.” Imrahil paused, then, “she would make you a fine Queen, Éomer. And as part of the marriage contract, Dol Amroth would gift Rohan with all the supplies it needs.”

            “Are you suggesting I promise to wed a girl I’ve never even met?” he questioned slowly, voice bland. Imrahil winced, then sighed.

            “I had hoped that she would join us for King Elessar’s crowning in Minas Tirith, but she fell ill after tending so many wounded and injured after the Battle of Pelennor. And then Elphir’s wife Riana gave birth to their second child, Finuviel, just as we were about to leave to join you in the White City to begin on Théoden King’s funeral procession. She insisted on staying behind to help look after them.”

            Éomer looked decidedly uneasy. “What of the lady? Is she to have no say in this?”

            Aragorn was the one who spoke first. “It seems cold-hearted, I know, but such is the way alliances of this kind are often made in Gondor, my friend.”

            “Lothíriel will do her duty to me and her country, have no fear,” Imrahil added. Éomer scowled.

            “‘Do her duty?’” he parroted harshly, at once beginning to second-guess his respect for the Prince of Dol Amroth. “I will not have my wife _sold_ to me, gentlemen, like so much horseflesh,” he finished, seething. It was Imrahil’s turn to scowl.

            “Do not mistake my eagerness for this match for lack of care or warmth for my child. I assure you that my daughter is most precious to me, and I would not even suggest giving you her hand unless I thought that the two of you would suit. And I do. I truly believe that you and Lothí would make a very fine match indeed. Her gentle hand is just the sort of touch that Meduseld is in need of, to help soothe the wounds that Sauron and Saruman have wrought on these lands.”

            “She is a daughter of the Dunadain,” Aragorn persisted. “Raised a Princess and trained as the chatelaine of Dol Amroth ever since her thirteenth year. Out of all that you might claim, she is the best suited to assume the role of Queen of the Mark.”

            Éomer frowned down at the toes of his boots once more, suddenly torn. Éowyn would have his head if he agreed to this madness. Choosing a bride he’d never even laid eyes on, one who had utterly no say in the matter? Things were not done this way in the Riddermark. Alliances were very rarely made solely for gain, even among royalty. Their marriages were almost always of the heart, a binding of mates that was held most sacred.

            Yet his people needed Dol Amroth’s aid desperately, and were too stubborn to accept it unless given a good reason. Éomer glanced about the dark corners that surrounded him, heart heavy. The Golden Hall had indeed gone far too long without a woman’s touch. It had become the province of men, for Éowyn had always been better suited to a blade than a needle. To be wed to a true Princess of Gondor, a woman raised in finery and gentility . . . it was almost too much to hope for.

            And rightfully so he decided with a sneer. Imagine, such a woman married to _him!_ Théodred perhaps could lay claim to such a fine creature. But Éomer was not the son of a King. He was the son of a warrior. Despite his grandmother Lady Morwen’s greatest attempts, Éomer had always been and would always be a son of the Rohirrim. Very little of the Westron ways had made an impact on him. He well knew that his people were viewed as savages and barbarians compared to the more genteel lands of the South.

            Yet . . . what choice did he have? It was either wed the Princess of Dol Amroth or condemn his people to a slow death of starvation and disease.

            Éomer raised his gaze again and met the eyes of Prince Imrahil.

            “Can she ride?” he questioned, ignoring Aragorn’s sudden grin. Imrahil hesitated, however, and cleared his throat.

            “She . . . ah . . . somewhat.” He scowled.

            _“Somewhat?”_

            “That is, she has been trained to ride side-saddle,” Imrahil was quick to correct, “as is the way of Gondorian women. She has never ridden a horse astride, my lord, as you do here in Rohan.” Éomer’s scowl was stern.

            “She will have to be taught, if she is to be my wife,” he announced steadily, ignoring the warnings of ill-boding clamoring around in his brain. “The Queen of the Mark has to know how to ride a horse.”


	2. Doubts of a Princess, Who Would Be a Queen

_Dol Amroth, Gondor_

_April 17 th of the year 3020 T.A._

            This was it.

            Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth took in a deep breath and did her best not to give into the growing urge she had to turn tail and flee into the sea. Perhaps the Valar would take pity on her and the depths would swallow her whole, saving her from the impossible task that had been set before her.

            In some ways, she was still reeling from shock, which had not abated in the seven months that her father and three older brothers had returned from Rohan. Not since her father had given her the unexpected news, that he had offered her hand in marriage to the new King of Rohan and—against all believability—that the Lord of the Mark had actually accepted.

            Aunt Ivriniel had been perfectly scandalized of course. Whoever had heard of such a thing as a Princess of Gondor wedding one of those “savages of the North?” Of course, Lady Morwen of Lossarnach had done so—wed to the former King of Rohan, Lord Thengel, in fact. Yet Lossarnach was only a small fiefdom and was so far north as to be practically part of the Kingdom of Rohan anyhow, according to her aunt, so that did not in any way signify. The older woman had dropped into a dead faint at the news and took to her bed for months afterward.

            Lothíriel herself had been a touch hurt and confused at first, that her father would make such a momentous decision without her knowledge or consent. It was true that such alliances were not uncommon, yet the Prince of Dol Amroth had always doted on her and given her choices in everything else about her life. Why take those choices away from her so suddenly? Then Imrahil had explained to his youngest child the reasons why he had done what he had, however. That he had hoped she and Lord Éomer could have met ere the betrothal was made, only Fate had decided otherwise. He sat her down then and told her of the troubles of Rohan, told her about their dire need and how the proud Rohirrim would not accept aide unless it came in the form of an alliance, not in the form of charity.

            She therefore understood the importance of her marriage to the young King of Rohan, and did not begrudge her lack of a decision. Only . . . she still didn’t think she was up to the task.

            She didn’t think that she was fit to be a Queen.

            Lothíriel bit her lip as her maid assisted her in dressing. She let the woman worry about the cloak being secured around her shoulders, meanwhile she busied herself tugging on her thick blue-black riding gloves. She hoped that the chore would disguise her furiously trembling hands.

            Faith, how many times had Aunt Ivriniel told her she was too quiet, too faint of heart, too shy and retiring? That she spent far too many hours with her nose stuck in a book? She was a gentle sort, a scholar at heart. She was too short, too plain, and so far beneath what the Kingdom of Rohan must value in a Queen it was near to unseemly.

            Hadn’t her father returned from Rohan to immediately have her begin instruction on how to “ride properly?” While she had always proclaimed a fondness for horses, she had never really had much to do with them. There wasn’t much use for the creatures in her home by the sea. The only real exposure she’d ever had was to learn to ride side-saddle for the occasional tame trots ladies might take for leisure or for long journeys to other parts of Gondor.

            Yet, as the future Queen of Rohan, she was expected to know how to ride astride and do so with poise and skill. The learning of it had been quite a trial, where she had earned no small amount of bumps and bruises after being thrown and falling. That is, she had sustained these injuries while attempting to learn to ride on one of her father’s horses. Not so, astride her new mount.

            A month ago, a small party from Rohan had arrived with her bridal gift, which Éomer King bade her to ride when she came to Edoras for the wedding. He had gifted her with a breathtakingly beautiful golden mare—descended of the legendary _Mearas_ —a horse fit for a King. Or a Queen, as it were. The men who had accompanied the mare told her that their King had trained the horse for her himself all through the winter months, teaching her spoken commands in Westron instead of Rohirric. Her name was Gyldenfax, which meant “golden-hair” in their tongue. The horse was indeed beautiful, gentle in spirit yet noble in bearing. Gyldenfax had not once thrown her, had in fact moved in such a way several times that had managed to keep her from falling.

            The gift, while cherished, only made her feel worse about her impending nuptials, however. She wasn’t worthy enough to ride Gyldenfax, and she wasn’t worthy enough to be Rohan’s Queen.

            No doubt King Éomer would take one look at her and run screaming in the other direction. She had met Lady Éowyn, now the wife of her beloved cousin Faramir, and had seen for herself what a lady of Rohan was expected to be. She was neither tall of build nor brave of character as was the White Lady of Ithilien.

            The things she had heard of Éomer King in no way set her mind at ease, either.

            Her brothers had returned from the Battle of Pelennor and the Battle of Morannon with amazing tales of the brave Rohirrim and their new Lord. A man who had single-handedly brought down two Mûmakil and an unaccounted number of Haradrim upon their backs with one spear toss, Elphir reported. A seven foot tall warrior broad of muscle and powerful enough to tear the head off an Orc with his bare hands, had been Erchirion’s solemn boast. A golden lord so handsome the jaded ladies of Minas Tirith had all but fallen over themselves in order to taste, if Amrothos’ lofty praise was to be believed. Surely a man such as this could do better for himself and his country than her? A shy Princess of Gondor who went atremble at the mere thought of the terrors that her father and brothers had been forced to endure. A young girl who was struck breathless in the face of the horrors that had returned to Dol Amroth after the War of the Ring had ended.

            She wasn’t sure just what her father had told the man to get Lord Éomer to agree to wed with her, but whatever it was, he was bound to see it for a falsehood as soon as he set eyes on her. And then she would be sent back to Dol Amroth in shame. That was, perhaps, her greatest fear.

            More than anything she desired to bring honor and pride to her father and family, a goal she had always felt falling short of her whole life. The thought of Éomer sending her away was almost more than she could bear.

            And so—only weeks after she had learned of the betrothal—Lothíriel had begun to mount her own defense. It was the only sort of weapons or armor she had at her disposal; knowledge. As soon as the finality of her situation set in, she had bade her cousin to send her any and every bit of literature the Great Library of Minas Tirith possessed concerning their allies to the north. She read anything she could get her hands on—books, scrolls and treatise—soaking up any and all information about Rohan and its people as she could manage. She had even begun teaching herself a little Rohirric, though it was slow going and she could only translate a few words and certainly nothing complex as yet.

            In the last seven months she had read all about the varied history of the Sons of Eorl, the long line of Kings that had led to her soon-to-be husband—who would in fact be the first in the Third Line. She had learned that the Rohirrim did not refer to their country as “Rohan,” rather that was the Westron term that the people of Gondor had bestowed them. Instead they called their lands the Mark of the Riders, or Riddermark, or just the Mark for short. She learned that their language of Rohirric was largely spoken, that in fact many of the people of the Mark could not read or write. Instead, their history was handed down from father to son, mother to daughter in the form of great songs and epic tales. She had taught herself terms such as _Éorlingas_ , which meant the Sons of Eorl, a loose title the Rohirrim gave themselves in deference to the first King of the Mark. She had also learned words like _Éored_ , which was the name for an irregular unit of cavalry, and learned the difference between the Westfold and the Eastfold. Lothíriel had familiarized herself with all things of the Mark, in an attempt to arm herself with whatever she could to help secure her fate. Whatever that was destined to be.

            And now the day had come for their company to start out. Her father, three older brothers, Elphir’s wife Riana, their three year old son Alphros and their nine month old daughter Finuviel as well as her cousin Faramir and his wife Lady Éowyn—the latter of which had just arrived in Dol Amroth earlier that week—would be setting out north today for the Blackroot Vale. They were to take the pass under the mountain—beneath Dwimorberg—which would open up into the Dimholt. From there, to Dunharrow and then only ninety or so miles north through the valley of Harrowdale to the capitol city of Edoras. Within which was the Golden Hall of Meduseld, which was to become her new home.

            Being terribly claustrophobic due to a game of hide-and-seek gone horribly awry when she was a child, Lothíriel wasn’t even going to let herself think of the many hours she would be forced to travel beneath the ground under the Haunted Mountain. She already had enough worries to contend with as it was, without needlessly adding to them. Taking the Dimholt road would cut their travel time in half. Though whether or not that was a good thing or a bad thing she had yet to decide.

            Lothíriel finished tugging on her gloves, then replaced the fluttering maid’s hands in securing the silver clasp at her throat, cut in the shape of a swan in flight. Her gown was not the richest in her wardrobe but it was well-suited to travel, a fine gray-silver muslin trimmed in darker blue to match the velvet cloak now secured about her neck. Unheard of in Gondor, she also wore a soft pair of gray hose beneath her skirts in the way of Rohirrim women, to maintain her modesty as she sat astride in the saddle. A sturdy pair of soft black leather ankle boots had replaced her fine silk slippers. The only real Gondorian bit of fashion she retained was her headdress. Her thigh-length black hair had been twisted up and tamed in several coils pinned in her nape, all covered in a fine silver veil wrapped around her head and neck and trailing down her back beneath the hood of her deep blue cloak.

            In a way, Lothíriel was almost glad her Aunt Ivriniel had refused to come and bid her goodbye. Surely the old dragon would faint dead away at the mere sight of her. The young princess pushed away the pinch of hurt that assaulted her at the thought, doing her best to steel herself against it. It was true, her elder Aunt had had much of the raising of her in the place of her own mother, who had died when she was only seven years old. Yet Lady Ivriniel had never been what one might call loving and warm, instead she was everything that was strict, haughty and downright cold at times to her only niece. Ivriniel had felt betrayed when Lothíriel did not heed her words and refuse her father’s wishes to wed the King of Rohan outright. She had made no secret of the fact that she could not forgive or forget such an end, and had all but disowned her, privately if not publicly.

            Not that it mattered much. After today, she would likely never see her Aunt Ivriniel again.

            Before she could depress herself even more, Lothíriel turned on her heel and left out of her room, putting out of her mind the fact that she would never return to it. She held her head high, chin lifted, as she glided through the open hallways of her father’s home. Her expression was serene, her smile tight but heartfelt to greet the throng of her father’s people who had turned out to see her go. She nodded to those who called out to her, moving purposefully toward her horse and inwardly praying that her fierce trembling was not visible to the naked eye.

            Gyldenfax waited patiently for her to mount, decked out in all the finery that she had come from Rohan bearing—an exquisitely wrought dark brown saddle and tack tooled in gold and green, made especially for her. This was apparent in the fine breast collar that attached to the saddle, having silver and gold studs intricately carved with alternating running horses and swans in mid-flight.

            The mare itself stood at least eighteen hands high, her coat a burnished amber that glistened like molten gold in the morning sunlight. Her mane and tail were a pale white-blonde, and she had a bold white blaze down the front of her face, as well as white socks on all but her left rear leg. As always, Gyldenfax greeted her warmly with a soft nicker and a gentle thump of her pale pink nose. Afterward the princess accepted the assistance of a man-at-arms and a sturdy mounting block, hopping up into Gyldenfax’s saddle with little trouble—praise be to whoever was listening.

            Lothíriel was so focused on not fumbling that she completely missed Lady Éowyn’s small smile and nod of approval nearby.

            As their party—surrounded by an entire contingent of her father’s Swan Knights—started out from Dol Amroth, Lothíriel allowed herself one look over her shoulder. Her eyes wandered along the glittering coastline, gazing out along the rooftops of the city, staring at the awe-inspiring Sea-Ward Tower of Tirith Aear. She committed to memory the beauty and the wildness of the sea beyond that she had always admired, if never able to emulate.

            Then the Princess turned resolutely forward in the saddle and promised herself she would never again look back.

 

* * *

            “I still cannot believe he agreed to this madness.”

            Lothíriel was startled out of her game of keeping her swan clasp out of her tiny niece’s grasping fingers and mouth at Éowyn’s sudden, disgruntled announcement. She blinked, stunned, as the fiery Lady of Ithilien continued.

            “Agreeing to marry someone he’s never even met before! And you given utterly no choice in the matter, no less!”

            Her sister-in-law, Riana, frowned from where the three ladies sat in one of the larger and more comfortably furnished tents. A full day’s ride away from Dol Amroth, they had only recently set up camp for the night and were now seeking a bit of rest from the weariness of travel. The precocious Alphros was currently holding court with his father, grandfather, uncles and cousin outside.

            “It is a little late for such thoughts, don’t you think Lady Éowyn?” Riana demanded carefully after a moment of tense silence.

            The White Lady merely snorted, crossing her arms with a huff. Even dressed in a fine blue gown with her golden hair twisted up in a plaited bun and tamed by silver netting as was the way of Gondorian fashion, Éowyn looked more ready to snatch up a sword and defend the camp rather than hold court with her two female companions.

            “It may be too late to put a stop to this foolishness, but it isn’t too late for me to be disgusted by it all. I had thought that that _oaf_ of a brother of mine was better than this.”

            Riana fell silent. Lothíriel swallowed the lump in her throat, then cleared it hesitantly. “I . . . I am sorry that I do not meet your approval, Lady Éowyn,” she started, but was cut short when the Lady of Ithilien whirled to her with a stunned gasp.

            “What? No! That’s not it at all, Lothí!” she protested immediately and vehemently. She looked so surprised and offended by the thought that Lothíriel allowed much of the tension she was feeling to melt away. “While it is true that we have only recently met,” the blonde woman continued, “I like to think that we have become good friends.” Lothíriel nodded to Éowyn’s questioning look, and the beautiful Shield-Maiden smiled winningly. “Never doubt that I hold you in the highest regard, Lothíriel,” Éowyn announced fervently. “Even if I did not have Faramir’s utter love and devotion to you as an example, I myself can appreciate that you are quite possibly the _sweetest_ girl I have ever met. You accepted me immediately without a thought, and have never made me feel less of a person because of my homeland.”

            Lothíriel inwardly winced, knowing all too well the prejudice some of her more “civilized” countrymen—especially the ladies—could have concerning the northern lands and their “barbarous ways.”

            “I do not protest this marriage exactly,” Éowyn went on to clarify. “Only the abrupt way it was arranged. Without your knowledge or even your consent!” She seemed so scandalized and upset, Lothíriel felt obliged to set her heart at ease.

            “While it is true that I did not know of the match until after it had been decided, you must not let that bother you, Lady Éowyn. The need of your people was dire, and my betrothal to your brother was the perfect solution to their crisis.” She gave a delicate shrug. “Such alliances are often made this way in Gondor.”

            Éowyn made a face.

            “Well it is not the way of it in the Mark, let me assure you,” she protested. “And I had taken my brother to be a better man than the sort to take a wife at the price of a few barrels of grain.”

            “Arranged marriages are not always so terrible,” Riana intervened with a knowing smile. “My own marriage to Elphir was decided when we were still children. And as you can see,” she continued, reaching out to lovingly stroke the black curls gracing her second-born’s tiny head, “we have grown to care very deeply for one another.”

            Lothíriel gazed down at baby Finuviel, for a moment unable to chase away the cold terror that had suddenly taken root in her chest. It was one thing to worry over even being accepted by the King of the Mark, of becoming the Queen of the Rohirrim and establishing herself as a worthy Lady of Meduseld. It was quite another thing entirely to face the finality of becoming a man’s wife, one who was a complete stranger to her and would not be much better by the time of her wedding night. To reconcile herself to lying with him and letting him touch her intimately. Of bearing the man’s much needed heirs. How long would it be before her belly grew large and round with the next King of the Riddermark?

            They were only a scant week and a half away from the White Mountains, where they were to meet Éomer King and his host of riders and be escorted the rest of the way through the Dark Door and on to Edoras. Her father had told her that after they arrived, they would wait another week to allow all those who wished to witness their union a chance to arrive. King Elessar and Queen Arwen Undómiel, as well as the White Wizard Gandalf were only a few among many others. After that they would hold a ceremony at high noon in the Rohirrim way; an exchange of binding vows before Mithrandir and the court of Meduseld, sealed by their sharing of a cup of wine, followed by a huge feast that would stretch long into the night and even the next day, she had been told. Not that she would be around to enjoy much of the feasting.

            Lothíriel’s face paled with the direction her thoughts were suddenly taking, despite her best efforts. The knowledge she had been so keen and stubborn on acquiring suddenly turned against her, for she now knew very well what came afterward.

            It was tradition that the new couple would quit the hall early on the first night, just after the sun had set, in order for the man to have his conjugal rights. They would be brought refreshment later in the evening, but were otherwise forbidden to be disturbed. Only afterward, in the morning, would she be officially crowned Queen of the Mark. Her “mettle” was to be tested, as it were, by her husband and King before she could claim the throne at his side. At that thought, her pallor instead burned into a scarlet tide. Admittedly, she didn’t know very much about what happened between a man and his wife. Her Aunt Ivriniel had been very vague, only to say that it hurt terribly and was extremely messy. Her only advice had been that it was best she lay very still and close her eyes very tightly, and pray that her husband had done with it quickly.

            And that had been told to her long before they had known that her husband would not be a Gondorian noble, but rather a Lord of the Rohirrim. Faith, with the fierce sort of man she was to wed, would she even survive the bedding?

            Lucky for her, Éowyn and Riana seemed oblivious to the mental avalanche her inner-thoughts were creating, and continued their conversation.

            “Very rarely are betrothals made by anyone other than the couple in question, in the Mark,” Éowyn was saying, tone firm. “If ever. Finding one’s heart-mate is a sacred matter to the Rohirrim, one we do not take lightly.”

            “Well you know the new King of Rohan better than either of us,” Riana suddenly announced, and Lothíriel tensed. “Prince Imrahil seems to think that your brother and our Lothí will suit. What do you think?”

            Lothíriel suddenly found herself under Éowyn’s intense scrutiny.

            “Éomer is a great warrior of Men,” she murmured softly, her ice blue eyes missing little as they stared deep into the nervous princess’s own. “He has fought many battles and faced many dangers—for our people and for all of Middle-Earth. He is strong, proud, fierce in temper but fair in all things. A great man, though stubborn and pigheaded at times,” she finished with a grin.

            Riana laughed, but Lothíriel grew silent. She bit her lip again, then suddenly thrust her niece back into the arms of her mother. Riana took Finuviel with a surprised lift of her brows, frowning as the young princess got to her feet with a wrench immediately afterward.

            “A great man,” she burst out, tone strangled. “Far too great for the likes of me!” Éowyn frowned.

            “What do you mean?” Lothíriel turned to her, expression desperate.

            “Don’t you see! You are right to despair, Éowyn,” she let loose, near tears. “I am no Queen of the Riddermark! I am just a frightened girl so scared I fear near to fainting at any moment!”

            Lothíriel put her face in her hands then, fighting off the sobs that wanted to break free. She felt Éowyn’s firm but comforting hand take her shoulder soon after.

            “Lothí . . . I did not mean to make you doubt yourself. Never was that my intent. I will count myself lucky indeed to gain you as a sister.”

            “And I am not worthy of such praise,” she murmured miserably. She raised her tear-stained eyes to the tall Lady of Ithilien, and took no solace in her stunned expression. “I am n-nothing like you, Lady Éowyn,” she admitted at last, her voice hitching. “I have tried very hard t-to learn all that I could of your lands after father announced my engagement. And everything that I have learned has only increased my doubt and dismay. I am no Shield-Maiden of Rohan,” Lothíriel sobbed. “I cannot wield a sword, I can barely ride a horse and I have no great courage or strength in me. Your brother will be shamed,” the miserable princess finished, “to find himself bound to a short, dark-haired child practically scared witless at the sight of her own shadow.”

            There was a long moment of silence, then Éowyn suddenly braced her fists on her curvy hips.

            “No courage? Are you daft as well as dense, Lothíriel?”

            Stunned, her tears dried almost instantly. She met the blonde woman’s eyes again and took in her expression of exasperated humor.

            “Surely you jest,” Éowyn continued, “to proclaim you have no courage. When in fact you display a great deal of it to have agreed to leave everything and everyone who is familiar to you behind and start a whole new life in a country that is completely foreign. To wed a man you’ve never even met before on the word of your father for the sake of a whole nation of people who do not share your blood. I would not have the strength to do it,” she then announced firmly.

            Lothíriel blinked, stunned.

            “But you . . . you slew the Witch-King of Angmar!” she protested, tone strangled, and Éowyn laughed. Riana joined her.

            “Yes, perhaps. But killing the Dwimmerlaik pales in comparison to this, I think. Had Éomer or my Uncle even suggested it to me I would have blackened their eyes for it and refused on the spot. I am not so brave as you, in this.” Lothíriel looked so scandalized by such a declaration that Éowyn had no choice but to chuckle and continue, wrapping a companionable arm around the smaller, younger girl and giving a friendly squeeze. “You may not wield a sword and shield on the field of battle, little Lothí, but that does not mean you have no strength or valor of your own. Agreeing to marry my brother solely for the sake of a people you owe no allegiance to,” Éowyn paused, then shook her head, unable to put her thoughts into words. She continued after a moment along a different vein, instead.

            “Your compassion and the strength of your heart would challenge my skill with a blade any day,” she announced solemnly. “Yours is a valor of a different kind, and in fact far more in need by my people than any fighting skills that I might possess. The Rohirrim _need_ a Queen such as you, Lothíriel. A woman of tenderness and gentleness, to sooth the pain of their loss and ease their way into a new age.”

            Here Éowyn paused yet again, to let her words sink in. Then she grinned again, and her serious tone took on a more teasing air. “And as to being ‘too small and dark’ for Éomer, you might as well reconsider that as well.” She laughed at the other two when they looked confused. “My brother was quite popular with the ladies of Minas Tirith during his stay for Aragorn’s coronation. He in turn found their countenance quite fascinating as I recall, compared to our own tall, fair-haired and blue-eyed variety. It seems my brother’s tastes just might run more to the dark and tiny.”

            For all that Éowyn had meant to set her fears at ease, such a statement didn’t exactly serve that purpose. Lothíriel wouldn’t have thought herself capable of the emotion—especially for a man she had never met before—yet at the thought of Éomer dallying with the ladies of the White City she found herself pinched with a burning emotion that could only be likened to jealousy.

            Yet, Éowyn had a point. She couldn’t remain a frightened child forever. There were hundreds of people from both countries counting on her now. She felt her shoulders straighten. She was descended from the great Kings of Númenor. She was a pure-blooded Princess of Dol Amroth, by the grace of the Valar.

            And from this moment on, she would start acting like it too. Even if it killed her.


	3. Travel Woes, First Meeting

_Blackroot Vale, Gondor_

_April 29 th of the year 3020 T.A._

            It _was_ going to kill her. Lothíriel was now most sure of that fact.

            She was going to waste away before she ever set foot in the Mark. The young Princess had never traveled so long or so far before in her life, and certainly not without any respite along the way. There were no major settlements between Dol Amroth and the Vale however. Her father would not have partaken in their comforts even if there were, for he was eager to make their scheduled arrival on time. Therefore it had been nearly two weeks since she had slept in a real bed instead of a pallet on the ground, or been able to enjoy a real bath—not a quick washing with whatever water was available. Lothíriel had not even been allowed to enjoy the small pleasure of camping near the Blackroot River the night before. Being so near the mountains that it sprang from, the water had been so cold she couldn’t stand to submerse herself for longer than a few minutes before she was forced to jump back out again or freeze solid.

            Not only that, she hurt from head to toe and was convinced that by the time she did make it to Edoras, she would be reduced to a walking pile of bruises. Even with the months of training she’d had before setting out, Lothíriel was still not accustomed to being so long in the saddle, and she feared her sore rump would never recover. She had strained and pulled muscles she didn’t even know she _had._ As a result the young Princess was feeling decidedly less than her best.

            Lothíriel now hobbled her way over to where some of the men had made a makeshift water trough using a bit of waterproof leather stretched over a wooden frame.

            She only managed a weary nod to one of the men who saluted her, instead bending down and splashing a bit of the cool water onto her sweaty face. For all that the temperature had begun a steady decline the farther north that they traveled, it was still as yet warm enough to make hours in a saddle out beneath the unforgiving sun an uncomfortable experience. She was in desperate need of the refreshment.

            Lothíriel stared down at her broken reflection in the small pool for a moment afterward, and sneered with distaste. She certainly looked a sore sight. Her black hair had begun to come unraveled from its prim headdress of the morning, hanks of the black coils falling this way and that down her back and in her face. Of which was sweat-streaked and flushed. She felt horrible, and looked worse; just the way she wanted to be when meeting her future husband for the first time, she thought with a scowl.

            “Whatever it is,” a warm voice suddenly called out from behind her, “I’m sure the water didn’t mean it. Do not be so hard on the poor thing.” Lothíriel straightened—wincing as the sudden movement reminded her of all the sore and tired muscles in her back—then turned to see her grinning cousin standing only a short distance away. Faramir chuckled at her disgruntled pout, which informed him just how _not_ amused she was by his teasing. As always, he continued undaunted by her displeasure on the matter.

            “I am sure whatever it did to displease you, it is very, very sorry.”

            “Oh hush, you,” she muttered ungraciously. Weariness and discomfort, she was learning, could sour even her supposedly unrelenting good nature. “I do not find you in the least bit amusing,” she informed him primly, which of course only made Faramir laugh the more. He didn’t look the least bit put off by their long journey, as fresh and bright-eyed as he had been nearly two weeks ago. In fact, besides herself, only Riana showed signs of weariness. And even she wasn’t quite so bedraggled as Lothíriel was herself.

            That knowledge only served to sour her mood more.

            “Not many do,” Faramir agreed pleasantly to her previous assessment.

            Lothíriel merely rolled her eyes, but refused to rise to the bait. She decided with a bone-tired sigh that she was just too weary. Some of her fatigue must have shown, for Faramir’s teasing smile dimmed a little and she soon found his strong arm supporting her on one side.

            “Are you truly unwell, Lothí?” he questioned then, tone concerned. She tried for a wobbly smile.

            “I will be fine, cousin,” she assured. “I am only tired. And sore. Some rest will rejuvenate me, I think.”

            He helped her to her tent, then accompanied her inside. She thanked him for the assistance, then let her tired frame plop down somewhat ungraciously onto her pallet. After a moment he joined her, crouching down at her side. He was silent for a moment, watching her undo the mess her hair had become. She had just started pulling a metal-toothed comb through the tangles when Faramir spoke again.

            “I have not had much of a chance to talk to you about all that is happening, Lothíriel,” he began slowly. “I won’t bother asking you whether or not this is what you want. I doubt this is the future you ever envisioned for yourself.” His blue eyes were sharp and discerning as he continued softly. “I only ask if you are sure that you will be able to do this thing. I know you wish to please your father and help the people of Rohan,” he added before she could speak. “Yet this is no small task that has been set before you. Quite honestly, it is very much to ask of one so young.”

            Lothíriel hesitated, then nodded. “I know how important this is,” she assured him, slowly beginning to plait her thick hair into one large braid. “I do. And while I . . . don’t really see myself as a very strong person, your wife has assured me that she believes I am well-suited for the needs of her people.” She met his sharp eyes steadily, with a confidence she hoped to one day actually feel rather than feign. “Lady Éowyn believes that I will do well as the new Queen of Rohan. And I . . . I promise to do my best to not let her down. Or anyone, for that matter.”

            “And what of yourself?” he demanded knowingly, and Lothíriel flinched ever so slightly. Then she shrugged as she secured the braid with a bit of muslin and then flipped the heavy mass over her shoulder to fall down her back and onto the ground behind her.

            “I keep no aspirations for myself. Only . . .” Here she fell silent, and Faramir motioned encouragingly for her to continue. Lothíriel paused.

            Besides Riana, Lothíriel had always been the closest to her cousins, especially Faramir. More so than her own brothers in fact, for Faramir was more of an age with her and certainly more of the same gentle, scholarly mind. Though, the strong and capable Boromir had been very dear to her heart as well, and even a year later she still felt a pinch of pain at the thought of his passing. Yet, if she could speak candidly to anyone of her feelings, it would be Faramir. And so, though her cheeks heated and her voice became a touch more faint with embarrassment, she finished her thought.

            “I only hope that the King and I will suit, if even a little.”

            She glanced away and stared instead at the wall of her tent to ease the discomfort of speaking so freely of such personal thoughts, so missed Faramir’s slight smile.

            “I was only seven when mother passed, but I remember well that she and father were very close. Elphir and Riana are well-matched as well, though they do not always show it so clearly.” She turned back to her cousin and shared his smile. “That is to say nothing of the affection I have seen develop between you and your Lady.” At this Faramir grinned contentedly. She sighed, then. “I hold no illusions of finding such a love for myself. Yet I will be content if the King and I may become friends at least, if nothing else.”

            Faramir was silent for a moment, then, “from all that I have seen of Lord Éomer, I do not think that yours shall be a wish too very hard to obtain. You are a very likable person, Lothí,” he added at her skeptical glance, “and Éowyn’s brother is a good man. Admittedly he can be a bit . . . intense, at times,” he added carefully—ever the diplomat—then shrugged. “That is just the Rohirrim way, I suppose. Theirs is a far different world than ours, as you’ve no doubt learned for yourself. That is if the amount of books and scrolls missing out of the Great Library is to be any sort of indication.”

            Lothíriel shared his chuckle, then hesitated. Yet she chose to heed her earlier decision to trust Faramir’s confidence and eventually spoke again, though choosing her words carefully.

            “Do you think he will be very disappointed in me, Faramir? That I am . . . not very much like his sister?” Faramir immediately snorted at that however, looking repulsed.

            “What man wishes to wed his sister?” Lothíriel scowled at his returning playfulness.

            “You know what I mean, you rogue. That I am not strong or very brave. Amrothos and Erchirion say Lord Éomer is a great warrior. That he killed two Mûmakil with only one spear toss!”

            “Yes, yes, and that he’s seven feet tall and can tear the head off an Orc with his bare hands,” Faramir finished with a laugh. He gave his younger cousin a droll look. “I have heard the tales, and your brothers love to exaggerate, especially Amro.” He shook his head with another chuckle at her disgruntled scowl. “While it is true that Lord Éomer is a great warrior, he is actually closer to six and a half feet tall, not seven. And I seriously doubt that anyone could tear the head off an Orc with his bare hands. Do not let them intimidate you with tales, Lothí,” he admonished after a slight pause. “While no doubt brave and honorable, Éomer is just a man. Just like any other. And contrary to popular belief, not all ladies of Rohan are like my Éowyn,” he revealed at last with another grin. “While it is true that many of them learn rudimentary skill with a blade in order to protect themselves from the Wild Men and other dangers, they are not all such fierce little warriors. I doubt Lord Éomer or his people will expect you to snatch up a sword and help defend Meduseld should danger arise.”

            She chuckled with him at the thought of such a silly scenario, then sighed again soon after. Faramir continued to amuse himself at the expense of her discomfort for a short time, then took pity on her and stood.

            “I will go and fetch Éowyn and see if she might have something to treat your saddle bruises.” Lothíriel blanched however.

            “I do not wish to be seen as weak,” she murmured, “especially to Lady Éowyn.” Faramir waved away her protests.

            “She will not see your pain as a weakness. In fact, everyone has been most impressed with just how well you’ve held up so far, given the circumstances.”

            Faramir exited the tent soon after, and Lothíriel was left to wonder whether or not what he’d said was to be seen as a compliment or not. It should have been, yet strangely she felt a pinch of annoyance that everyone apparently thought so little of her endurance. She shifted on the pallet, and had to bite back a wince. Then she released a foul-humored chuckle. Well, then again, mayhap they were not wrong to doubt.

            As it was, Éowyn entered her tent only moments later with a sympathetic smile and a small jar of perfumed oil that she promised would work wonders on sore muscles and saddle bruises. After helping care for her injuries, Éowyn left again to go join Faramir for the evening meal—no doubt some forest fare that their scouts had managed to procure earlier in the day. For her part, Lothíriel wasn’t all that hungry. Instead she readied herself for bed and ended up falling into an exhausted, near comatose slumber and missed the meal entirely.

            The next morning she was roused early and felt as though she’d gotten no rest at all. Groggy and sore, she made no outward complaints as she dressed as quickly as her deadened limbs would allow. Lothíriel managed to eat a little of the seedcake rations that were offered for breakfast, but only a few mouthfuls. Unwitting of her father’s slightly worried stare, Lothíriel instead dragged her weary body back up into Gyldenfax’s saddle and tried to ignore her sore muscles’ protest.

            They were supposed to reach the Black Stone of Erech some time today, or by early tomorrow at the latest. Somewhere in the back of her tired mind Lothíriel hoped that it was tomorrow—if just to give her one more day of reprieve—though with every day that passed she found herself fearing her first meeting with her new husband less and less. She was getting near to the point that she just might agree to wed herself to the Black Lord Sauron himself if it meant a warm bath and a soft bed to lie in for the next year and a half.

            As it was, around midday their outrider returned to the main of the group with the news that the Stone of Erech was only an hour or so away and that Lord Éomer waited there himself with a small contingent of riders.

            It had already been decided that many of the Swan Knights who had ridden with them on the journey would remain behind at the entrance into the Paths of the Dead, and instead await her family’s return after the wedding, since it would be difficult for so many to traverse the underground road. Instead only a small part of her father’s garrison and a small part of Lord Éomer’s _Éored_ would escort her down the road under the mountain, and then in Dunharrow they would meet up with Rohan’s full Muster—who would then accompany them the rest of the way to Edoras.

            Lothíriel felt a brief moment of panic, her hands flying up to her wind-bedraggled hair and staring down at her travel-stained clothes in dismay. Yet she was simply too tired to hold on to the taxing emotion for long, and gave up with a small slump of her shoulders. Her newly-developed sourness reared its head with a thought; why not let the man see her at her very worst? That way anything else she did or became would only be an improvement. Besides, it would be ridiculous for Éomer to expect her to look her best after traveling non-stop for two weeks.

            At least this was what she told herself, to gain what little bit of comfort she could in the telling. Meager though it might be.

            Lothíriel nudged Gyldenfax up toward the front of their procession when Imrahil bade her, and as they made the last turn of the slowly narrowing valley, she found herself wedged firmly between her father’s horse and that of her cousin Faramir. Her three brothers were directly behind, with Éowyn and Riana not far behind that, surrounded on all sides by her father’s Knights.

            Their scout must have made himself known to the Rohirrim, for—even though there were signs of recent encampment—when their procession arrived the riders were all mounted, fully assembled and ready for travel. There were about ten of them in total, all dressed in mail and leather and olive-green cloaks to ward away the chill. Many of them wore helms, several adorned with crests and long white tails, while others sported fierce-looking eye guards and other trappings that only increased the wearer’s amount of intimidation. And given that every one of them was very large and burly beneath their armaments, it seemed a rather moot point to the increasingly nervous Lothíriel.

            As soon as they neared, one rider broke away from the rest. Immediately it was apparent that he was a cut above the others in station and in bearing. The billowing green cloak secured over the shoulder-guards of his leather armor bore an intricate white and gold brocade down the edges compared to the plainer fare of his fellows, and the high-necked collar of the tunic beneath his armor boasted the same. His armor wasn’t especially fancy of make, instead well-worn and obviously bearing use, yet it was finely polished—as though someone had desperately attempted to bring back some of its former glory. Lothíriel took one look at the man who wore it and quickly decided that it must not have been him.

            He didn’t look the sort to care overmuch what his armor looked like, just so long as it served its purpose.

            The stallion he rode was also a little fancier than his fellows. A massive dapple-gray whose sheer size and lofty bearing showed his _Mearas_ ancestry. Much of his coat was a spotted charcoal gray and black—his long mane and tail black as well—with his face a pale white-silver and patches of the same across his spine beneath the impressive saddle and tack he sported. Yet Lothíriel spared the mount only a brief acknowledgement in deference the man who sat astride him. Her attention was very quickly rapt.

            He seemed huge and larger than life astride his great horse, his shoulders broad and pulled back to a proud angle as he sat so comfortably in the saddle, as if he’d been born there. He wore no helmet to hide his features, which she discovered with a breathless hitch were very handsome indeed. She had almost hoped that Éowyn and Amrothos had been exaggerating on that part as well. Yet she was to find that the young King of the Rohirrim was as fiercely attractive in the flesh as the tales gave him credit for.

            He had a strong jaw shadowed by a short and well-trimmed brown beard, heavy brows of the same color pulled low over a set of dark eyes—the exact color she was still too far away to see. What stood out the most to her however was his long mane of golden-blonde hair, which fell down well past his shoulders in a riot of unruly curls. Currently he had the top layers pulled back tight and secured in the back, presumably in a simple tail to stay out of his face.

            Lord Éomer, King of the Riddermark, stopped his horse only a few lengths ahead of his fellows and then sat waiting for them to arrive. His gaze was centered on her and strayed nowhere else, his dark eyes intense and probing even from such a distance. Under his perusal Lothíriel seemed to become painfully aware of her every flaw at once, of each and every one of the dirt stains marring her face and clothes, and of the strands of unkempt hair that had managed to find their way free of their bindings. Her raw nerves frayed more with every step Gyldenfax took toward her former master.

            Her father raised his hand and called a halt to their movement at last with only a few feet standing between them. Prince Imrahil then started to call out official greeting, but was abruptly interrupted.

            “Éomer!”

            Everyone turned to see Lady Éowyn, grinning widely, promptly launch herself out of Windfola’s saddle and then race toward her brother—heedless of anyone else. For all her harsh words about Lord Éomer and her annoyance concerning his betrothal, her fierce love and affection for the man was plain for all to see as she gave no thought to the chuckles that erupted on both sides due to her behavior.

            And it was a bond that was obviously shared, for at the very sound of her voice Lord Éomer’s stern expression softened considerably and a small—though warm—smile spread. Imrahil just shook his head and sighed with his own smile, while Faramir chuckled outright. As they watched, the King of Rohan quickly dismounted, with an ease and fluid skill that belied his familiarity with the action. He then caught up his younger sister in a fierce bear-hug, spinning them both about with a rich roll of laughter after she practically flung herself into his arms.

            Lothíriel found herself smiling even through her cold knot of nerves. She suddenly realized that it had been over half a year since the siblings had last seen each other. Some of her apprehension began to ease away at the King’s open display of affection for his sister. Surely a man who could care for his family so openly could not be that frightening. So what if he towered over even Lady Éowyn, who was more than several inches taller than herself? And so what if the King had swept the blonde woman up off the ground as if she weighed no more than a feather, and held her aloft for several moments without the slightest hint of strain?

            The siblings disengaged themselves after another moment, and Lady Éowyn gave a somewhat breathless apology to everyone for her lapse in manners. Prince Imrahil quickly assured her such was not necessary, then cleared his throat for a more officious introduction.

            “My Lord Éomer, it does me great pleasure to introduce you to my daughter at last,” Imrahil then announced, and just like that, her tongue lodged itself to the roof of her mouth and she forgot how to breathe as those dark eyes lifted from his sister and centered on her again. “I give you Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth.”


	4. A Fear of Dark Places Finds Unexpected Solace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of this work--this chapter specifically--was inspired by the awesome stories by Lady Bluejay. She can be found on fanfiction.net, and her Éomer/Lothíriel stories are really REALLY good. So I recommend highly.

_The Black Stone of Erech, Gondor_

_April 30 th of the year 3020 T.A._

 

            Éomer hadn’t known really what to think at first, when the procession of Dol Amroth had first appeared around the bend of the valley. Firefoot had shifted and pawed at the earth a little as they watched their approach, picking up on his nervous agitation. Yet the stallion had been well-trained and didn’t falter much more than that, thereby betraying his rider’s inner turmoil. Something Éomer was very grateful for.

            He had done his best to assure himself several times over the last few weeks—with increasing frequency in the past twenty-four hours—that this Princess Lothíriel was just a woman. A woman no different than any other. That his meeting her would present no difficulty, that it would be no different than his meeting any other woman, and that he had no reason to feel so damned nervous and awkward about it.

            Unfortunately the self-assurances weren’t working, and Éomer was stunned to find himself more than a little unsettled by the sight of that small host of riders coming toward him. Hell, in that moment he suddenly felt more afraid than he had been facing down the whole Host of Mordor at the Black Gate. Which was so utterly ridiculous he couldn’t even begin to put it into words.

            Despite his anxiety, Éomer found himself quickly seeking her out. His intended bride wasn’t very hard to spot in the press, at the front of the group astride Gyldenfax and firmly wedged between two Princes; that of Dol Amroth—her father—and Ithilien—the Lady’s first cousin and his sister’s husband. The closer she got the clearer—and more real—she became and his first impression of her was very different than what he’d been expecting. So much in fact that the greeting he’d prepared over the last three days got lodged somewhere in his throat and died before it was ever uttered. Instead Éomer could only stare, stunned mute.

            By Béma, she was so . . . _tiny._

            Lord Imrahil and all three of his sons were decently sized men, if not quite as tall as himself and of a more lithe and narrow build than his own broad frame. Yet they were each of them well above six feet. Therefore he had expected Princess Lothíriel to be of similar height as Éowyn perhaps, who was around the range of five foot nine. That was not the case at all. Astride Gyldenfax she looked no more than the size of a child, and he could discern that her frame would be thin and delicate even from this distance and the many layers that concealed her. No doubt the large mare felt more strain in wearing her brocaded saddle than she did the rider.

            Though he had been eager to see Éomer agree to the match, Imrahil had painted no false picture of his youngest child eight months ago, in the darkened great hall of Meduseld. He had cautioned him instead to the fact that Lothíriel was not a great beauty in the like of Queen Arwen or even Éowyn. Though admittedly Éomer was to be no judge of the fairness of his own sister’s face, many a man had claimed she was more than pleasing to look upon. But Imrahil had been very careful to label his daughter only “passing fair.”

            It was true that her face was not so attractive that it caused his breath to still and his wits to dull, and yet . . . there was certainly _something_ singular about the female that caused him to continue to stare, unable to break free from his stupor. She wasn’t ugly by any means. Rather, her countenance just seemed to be more . . . profound than anything else. Intense. One that demanded a second, even a third glance in order to take all of her in. Her eyes were very large, he could tell this even from a distance, and were by far the dominate feature of her small, heart-shaped face. They only increased the air of delicate child-like innocence that surrounded her. He couldn’t tell the exact color of them just yet but Éomer strongly suspected they might be of a similar shade to her father—which was a steely silver gray. These large and luminescent eyes combined with her tiny, pert nose and a somewhat pointed chin gave the girl—for he couldn’t quite bring himself to think of her as a woman—a sort of fey appearance. This more than anything else hinted to her supposed elfish and Númenorian ancestry.

            Also in common with her father, the young princess was in possession of inky black hair, seeming to take on a faint bluish sheen in the bright sunlight. The mass was currently pulled back tightly and pinned in a somewhat severe binding of coils at her nape. The style only served to accent the smallness of her body and the fine-boned delicacy of her face. Though he had learned that such was the fashion of women from Gondor during his brief stay in Minas Tirith, Éomer himself didn’t care for it. He much preferred the way of his own people, which was to wear their hair completely loose or, at the most, bound in braids. Several tendrils had begun to defy this one’s stern coiffure, though, and Éomer suddenly found himself intrigued—wondering just how long her hair would be if set loose.

            The party had come to a stop in front of him, then, and Éomer had felt a brief stab of terror as he realized that he still had utterly no idea of what to say. And then, Éowyn had come to his rescue in her usual, completely artless fashion.

            It did his heart good to see her, and his joy was genuine when he swept her up into his arms and hugged her just as fiercely as she did him. Her arms tightened around his neck for a brief moment, then, “‘Ware brother,” she had murmured as they embraced, her tone teasing but strangely urgent as well. “Put away the fierce warrior and try to smile, or you will frighten the poor thing to her grave.”

            Her words were heard by him alone, and he was quite sure that no one else even suspected that she had spoken. When he set Éowyn down again, he only listened with half an ear to her half-hearted apology to Prince Imrahil for her interruption and breaking of protocol. Instead his eyes had turned back to his betrothed.

            He witnessed a definite softening in her formerly pinched expression, a slight smile pulling at her pouting lips. Yet even as he watched, the relaxed demeanor disappeared again and she visibly tensed in the saddle. Perhaps then the ramrod-stiff seat she kept was not from distaste or disappointment as he’d first feared. Was she afraid of him, then?

            Well of course she was, he amended to himself disgustedly only a moment later. He must seem a giant to her, let alone being of a country and culture that her own viewed as uncivilized and wild. What else had he expected?

            “My Lord Éomer,” Imrahil suddenly called, snapping the young King back out of his inner censure with a start. “It does me great pleasure to introduce you to my daughter at last.” The older man motioned needlessly to the girl at his side. “I give you Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth.”

            The barest of moments passed, heavy with his hesitant silence.

            Unseen by the others through the massive folds of his ceremonial cloak, Éowyn faultlessly found the space between his armor and his hauberk and gave him a sharp, prodding jab with her bony little finger. Éomer managed not to outwardly flinch only through sheer force of will. Instead he forced his features to relax a little, and tried for a welcoming smile. He doubted he’d succeeded very well, for the Princess’s expression of unease didn’t relent much. Once more he inwardly cursed his lack of courtly ways. Flirting smiles and soft words did not come easy to him, if at all.

            In the end, he opted for honesty. He inclined his head in a slight bow, and met her eyes squarely with his own.

            “I am honored to meet you at last, Princess. Words alone cannot express the depth of my gratitude for what you have given me, of what you will give, and all that it has meant for my people. The Riders of the Mark bid you welcome, and hope that you might one day grow to love our land as much as we do ourselves.”

            He saw her swallow somewhat convulsively, perhaps as nervous as he was himself, then she gave him a wobbly smile that was as unconvincing as his own had been moments before. Yet her words, when they came, were dulcet in tone and soft with sincerity.

            “It is I who am honored, sire, by your suit as well as your gratitude. I am glad to accept your warm welcome, and I as well hope that I will come to cherish my new home just as much as I love the one that I have left behind.”

            Éomer blinked, slightly taken aback. He couldn’t help but silently applaud her tact, for her words were meant as much for him and his riders as they were the twenty Swan Knights surrounding her. She hadn’t forgotten the pride or the emotions of her father’s men, and was careful to soothe any feathers that might be ruffled at her change of loyalties.

            So, for all her child-like build and innocent eyes, she was a subtle and intelligent one. Crafty without being obvious, much like her cousin. Perhaps these two had more in common than blood ties, then. This was an unexpected boon, but a welcome one indeed. Éomer himself often had no patience for court subtleties, and they existed even in his own lands. If she was as cunning as he was beginning to suspect she was, then Princess Lothíriel would make him a very fine partner indeed in the coming years.

            That is, if he could ever manage to wipe away that spark of terror from her eyes.

            Perhaps for now it would be best to simply move forward. They had another week or so of travel ahead of them before they reached Edoras. There wouldn’t be much time for him to get to know her better during the ride, not with everyone else so close at hand and well within earshot. Yet after they arrived in Edoras, there would be time perhaps for him to get her alone and acquaint himself more personally with his future wife before he actually wed with her. And maybe from now till then he would figure out a way to soothe her anxiety, as well as his own. If he were to accomplish this feat, Éomer suspected that the kingdom of Rohan would become rich indeed in return. The halls of Meduseld would be filled once again with the grace and nobility Éomer feared it would lose now under his untutored rule.

            “Then come,” he announced, motioning to his riders, who at once closed ranks with razor precision. “Let us be away. Only a few hours under the mountain and you shall see your new home with your own eyes.”

            Éomer turned back to Firefoot and mounted quickly. The Lord of the Mark hesitated however when he saw the princess stiffen visibly in her saddle. Her color seemed to drain a little, though she said nothing, and no one else seemed to notice anything amiss. Imrahil instead issued out a few terse orders to those of his men who would be staying behind to await his return, oblivious to his youngest child’s sudden discomfit. What had just spooked her so, he wondered?

            Then Éomer shrugged off his unease, telling himself to stop reading so much into the girl’s every twist and turn. He was going to make himself go mad if he kept it up.

            His mind was taken away from his betrothed and her mysterious ways for a time, as they continued north toward the Dark Door. Éowyn brought her horse up near to his, and he found himself lost in conversation with her. She demanded to know all that had happened in Edoras since her departure last August, and he in return asked about all that had transpired with her in Ithilien that their letters had not shared. She assured him with a mischievous grin that her wedded life was bliss, and that she and Faramir were enjoying their work restoring Emyn Arnen to its former glory. Yet, for all her excited chatter, Éomer felt a prick of suspicion.

            He and his sister had always been very close. Eight months apart had not diminished that bond, and Éomer could tell that Éowyn was holding something back from him now. He didn’t press her just yet, however. When they returned to Meduseld would be soon enough for him to probe deeper and find out just what it was she wasn’t telling him.

            Conversation grew quiet as soon as they took their first steps into the Paths of the Dead. Though the Oathbreakers no longer haunted these halls, it was still an unsettling place and more than a little discomfiting for most to go beneath the mountain. The horses especially were reluctant to enter. The Rohirric mounts were calmed with a few soothing murmurs from their riders, though the Gondorian horses took a little more firm coaxing in order to get them to enter the darkened passages. Several riders bore torches to light the way as the blackness of the underground closed around them.

            Noises grew muffled and echoed, so that even the sound of a horse’s sigh or a shift of a cloak seemed to grow ominous. Éomer forced the eeriness from his mind through sheer force of will tempered by several years worth of battle conditioning. And though Éowyn’s face was slightly more tense than it had been, it appeared as though she did much the same.

            Not all were as successful.

            About two hours into their journey—half way through the passage—someone from behind him suddenly called a halt. Éomer turned in Firefoot’s saddle to see what was the matter, and saw Prince Imrahil and his sons clustered around the princess. He could tell immediately that something was wrong. In the pale and flickering torch-light her face looked ghost white. Her eyes were widened to their limits, and even from his distance from her he could see that her chest was rising and falling sharply with her rapid breathing.

            “Lothí?” one of her brothers, Amrothos, questioned softly at her side. She didn’t respond, merely stared straight ahead at nothing and continued to breathe erratically. Gyldenfax began responding to her rider’s distress, side-stepping nervously and tossing her head.

            “What is the matter, Lothíriel?” another, Erchirion, demanded gently soon after.

            Whatever it was causing it, her terror was building by the second. The princess soon began taking in great gasps of air, as if she were drowning.

            “I . . . I can’t,” she gasped helplessly, fists tightening on the reins. Gyldenfax immediately reacted as she’d been trained, rearing slightly in alarm and bucking her head. Lothíriel’s family members immediately and wisely backed their horses away from the larger _Mearas_ mare. “I can’t breathe!” she mewled out at last, quickly followed by a dry sob.

            The warbling tremor in her soft voice and the look of cold terror on her face spurred him into action. Before Éomer even realized what he was doing, he had Firefoot wheeled about and ordered all those in his path to clear away with a sharp word.

            “What is wrong with her?” he demanded, tone low but firm, doing his best not to startle Gyldenfax any more than she already was. If the mare was spooked and bolted, the princess would most certainly be gravely injured if not even killed.

            “When Lothí was a small child, she accidentally got herself locked inside a large chest while playing with her brothers,” Imrahil revealed at last, speaking quickly and quietly. “It made her scared of dark closed-in places for a time, but I had not realized she still suffered from this fear,” he explained at Éomer’s darkening expression. “She did not mention any unease in taking this path.”

            It was on the tip of his tongue for Éomer to snap that no one would so plainly reveal their innermost, darkest fears and that as her father it was his job to know them already. Yet he held himself in check, deciding that sharp counsel was not what was needed here. And besides, it wasn’t as if he had any right to judge Imrahil’s skill at parenting. He himself had witnessed her unease when he had mentioned taking the road under the mountain, and did nothing. The road left behind was always clearer than the paths ahead, and now Éomer cursed himself for a fool to not have investigated her unease more thoroughly.

            Presently, the situation was going from bad to dangerous. Gyldenfax began responding unfavorably to the amount of stress and tension in the air, especially under the stranglehold Lothíriel now held on the reins. Her dark eyes began to roll back, and with her ears flattening the great mare began to rear up, letting out a screaming whinny to warn all those around her to back away. Amrothos suddenly made to reach out for the halter, perhaps thinking to control the horse himself, but Éomer immediately snapped out for him to halt.

            If anyone made a move on that horse now in a way that she would see as threatening, she would do what she had been trained from a foal to do. Lash out with her deadly hooves, clear a path and then take flight, bearing her rider away from danger. Which, in this instance, would be a death sentence for both the horse and the tiny woman astride her.

            “Everyone back away!” he growled at last, and his fierce tone left no room for argument. Even Imrahil backed his horse away without a word.

            _“Gehebban, Gyldenfeax,”_ he called out then, pitching his voice in such a way as to be soothing but authoritative at the same time. Though he had retrained her in Westron for her new rider, the horse was still more familiar with her native Rohirric. As he had hoped, at the sound of the words the mare responded immediately, her ears pricking forward again. _“Cól, cól,”_ he continued to murmur, easing Firefoot up alongside the mare. He wrapped his stallion’s reins around the horn of his saddle in preparation for what he planned to do next, using the pressure of his knees alone to keep Firefoot steady. _“Átemian núna, gylden-cyninge,”_ Éomer soothed when the stallion’s sudden nearness would have upset her more. Gyldenfax pranced nervously, but stilled again, and finally showed signs of settling down. If not completely calm, she had been pulled back from the point of bolting at least.

            “Loosen the reins,” he then ordered of the princess. Much closer now, he could see the trickles of cold sweat on her brow and the tears glistening unshed in her huge eyes—which he then realized were more of a bluish sea-gray rather than her father’s silver steel. He could also see that her entire little body was shaking like the last leaf in a fierce autumn wind.

            She didn’t look at him or at anyone else, merely continued to stare ahead, trapped in her own personal hell. Lost into a place where panic and terror ruled. A seasoned veteran of some of the most horrible battlefields this Age had seen, it was not the first time Éomer had seen such a look. To see it on a woman, however, especially one so small and vulnerable, did something to him that Éomer could not name. Something in his chest squeezed almost painfully and the young King decided then and there that the sight of his future wife in agony was not something he wanted to experience or see again in the near future, if at all. He was determined now to take that look off her face by any means necessary.

            When she didn’t respond, he tried again. “Loosen your grip, princess.”

            He saw her slender throat work with the effort it took to try and force out the words, then, “I can’t,” she finally whispered. “I-I can’t. I can’t move.”

            “Yes you can,” he contradicted, keeping his voice gentle but firm. He spoke to her as he had Gyldenfax, commanding yet soothing. “You are the master of your own fate. Do not let your fears control you. You are stronger than that, princess.”

            She blinked a few times, then hazarded a glance in his direction without turning her head. He kept his gaze steady, expression calm, and nodded once. “Relax your grip on the reins, Lothíriel,” he ordered again, her name passing his lips almost without thought.

            Finally, with obvious effort, Lothíriel slowly managed to loosen the reins enough that Éomer was able to reach over and snatch them fully out of her grasp without spooking her mare. He tossed them to Ceorl—who had approached slowly from the other side after guessing his King’s intent—then reached out and scooped her up out of the saddle and into his lap, in one swift motion.

            Firefoot didn’t flinch, and though Gyldenfax side-stepped again, Ceorl quickly had her back under control with little effort. The tiny bundle now in his arms was another matter entirely, however.

            Her whole body was wracked with violent tremors, and as soon as he touched her she began to sob uncontrollably. She didn’t fight him, though he actually wished she would have. Any movement at all would have shown him some glimpse of returning spirit. What worried him more was that she simply hung in his grasp, unable to do anything more than shake and cry. As if her terror had completely broken her. For a moment Éomer was at a loss as to what he should do. Yet he had dove head-first into this however, and there was no backing out now.

            Heedless to the many eyes that watched him, Éomer quickly positioned her in a more comfortable seat—with both of her legs falling down Firefoot’s off side and her back braced in the circle of his left arm. He tucked her face into his chest, beneath his chin. Then he drew the edges of the voluminous cloak secured to his armor around them both, completely swallowing her whole. Beneath the shielding layers, Éomer wrapped both arms around her still-violently-trembling frame and held fast, as if he alone might hold her together. That by his hold and his will he might keep her from shattering completely from the strength of her fear.

            “Close your eyes, little one,” he murmured, keeping his voice the same steady and soothing rumble that he had used to soothe the horse. “Close your eyes and imagine yourself at home, safe in your bed. Far away from this evil place. This darkness is only a passing thing. It holds no power over you.” He kept speaking such soothing nonsense for a short while, though he couldn’t really tell at first if he was having any effect. He thought her tremors might have begun to ease, however. “That’s it,” he urged her gently, “match your breath to mine. Slow and easy, now.”

            Very slowly her trembling began to lessen. Until, at last, Éomer felt her move in away that was not a mindless shake or sob. She shifted in his hold instead, showing the first signs of recovery. Éomer felt his own tension ease considerably. He then loosened his death grip on her accordingly, but did not let go entirely.

            He suddenly found himself unable—or unwilling—to do so.

            “My Lord?”

            Éomer suddenly became aware of all those surrounding them once more. He turned to Prince Imrahil, taking in the man’s slightly uncertain look. His own was unwavering.

            “I suggest we press on,” he announced firmly. “The sooner we’re out from under the mountain the better.”

            Imrahil said nothing for a moment, and Éomer could tell that it was not indecision for his advice that gave him pause, but rather on the current position of his daughter. Yet after a moment he nodded, albeit slowly.

            “Perhaps he should hand her to one of us, father,” Elphir began, frowning. Clearly the eldest of Imrahil’s sons disapproved of his sister’s seat, though to Éomer it was a damned hypocritical attitude, and a little too late to take it. Given the fact that in less than two weeks time the girl would be his wife, it no business of his to interfere.

            An hour ago, the woman in his arms was merely a stranger, barely a face and a name. Yet this crisis had carved out a small place for her inside the young King, and had made his claim on her a little more real in his mind.

            The Rohirrim were notoriously possessive of what they considered theirs.

            Éomer gave the older man a chilly stare for his trouble, but left it to Imrahil to shake his head and deny the request.

            “Lothíriel is fine where she is,” the Prince announced, ignoring his heir’s stark disagreement. “Let us continue, and be done with this foul place as soon as possible.”

            Éomer felt his little burden tense at her father’s announcement, yet she made no real move to disentangle herself. No doubt her fear of the mountain and her lack of a desire to confront it again was the reason, yet he felt a swell of male pride just the same.

            Éomer took up Firefoot’s reins again with his right hand but kept his left wrapped securely around her. After a few moments, she actually seemed to snuggle closer—as close as his leather and mail would allow at least—and shifted the arm nearest to him until it was almost wrapped around his waist rather than squished between their bodies. After several minutes of silent travel, his little princess’s terrible tremors had all but ceased. Moments later he felt her body loosen entirely, becoming completely lax and pliant against his chest. Éomer grinned a little in response.

            Thus it was that the soon-to-be Queen of the Mark first entered her new land cuddled into the arms of her King, sound asleep.


	5. All New Territory

_Dunharrow, Rohan_

_April 30 th of the year 3020 T.A._

            Someone was trying to wake her up.

            Lothíriel didn’t want to. For the first time in what seemed like forever she was comfortable again, warm and safe. It seemed like ages since she had slept, and she wasn’t eager to let go of her newfound contentment. She gave a faint moaning grumble, trying to tuck her face deeper into the soft, warm cloth that served as her pillow. A pillow which—strangely enough—smelled of leather, horse and another, spicy and masculine sort of scent that she couldn’t identify. Lothíriel was still very deeply asleep however, so the oddity of that didn’t quite register completely. Just a passing thought easily abandoned in the face of her desire to reclaim her peaceful dreams.

            “Come now, little one,” a deep, male voice suddenly murmured from somewhere very near her ear, tinged with humor and faintly husky with something else. “Open your eyes, or you will miss your first glimpse of the Riddermark.”

            Very slowly her eyes started to crack open, wondering dazedly all the while who was in her bedchamber speaking to her. It was not her father’s voice, and none of her brothers had dared enter her room unannounced ever since she entered adolescence. Bleary-eyed, slowly blinking away the last vestiges of sleep, she stared up into a pair of warm green-brown hazel eyes only inches away and tried to remember where and when she was.

            Lothíriel stared up blankly into the handsome face of Éomer King for a solid minute before her memory finally returned in a rush. She stiffened with a gasp, eyes widening with horror.

            _Oh please, no . . . ._

            She only had bits and pieces of memory about what had happened under the mountain. She had been terrified to go into the Paths of the Dead, but was determined not to appear weak before her father and, worse, the atrociously attractive King of Rohan. As soon as the darkness had closed around her however, things had become vague in her mind. She dully remembered fighting off the icy fingers of terror for what seemed an eternity, of desperately resisting the sensation of the walls closing in, of her breath shortening until it seemed as though there was no air left for her to take. Yet eventually the strain had become more than she could bear.

            Lothíriel didn’t remember a whole lot after that, only that she was sure she was going to suffocate. And then she’d heard a voice, his voice. Calming the whirlwind of panic that filled her mind. Bringing her back from the very brink of madness. She dully remembered him pulling her out of Gyldenfax’s saddle after that, wrapping her in his cloak. And against all logic, somehow that had helped. She had closed her eyes tight as he’d bidden, and wished with all her might that she was back in her spacious rooms in her father’s castle by the sea.

            She’d barely registered the two powerful arms wrapped around her then, or the huge chest her face was buried into. She’d clung to the only solid thing in a world of darkness and kept repeating her mantra over and over, mindless to anything outside of her cocoon. Eventually, lulled by weariness and warmth, she must have fallen asleep.

            As if everything else wasn’t bad enough. At least he didn’t seem disgusted with her or angered. If anything, the young King looked thoroughly amused by her sudden predicament. Although, truthfully, Lothíriel didn’t want to seem so amusing to the man either, so his unexpected attitude could hardly be called an improvement.

            “Oh . . . I . . . please, I-I am sorry,” she started to stammer, starting to pull up away from him with a wrench. The arm he had wrapped around her back tightened into the resolve of steel however, keeping her still.

            “Easy, princess,” he murmured, voice low. “Wouldn’t want you to fall. And Firefoot’s not so used to bearing two, take care not to move too suddenly.”

            Instantly she froze, respecting the need not to spook the powerful stallion. Yet her eyes widened again.

            “Gyldenfax! Is she—,”

            “The mare is perfectly fine,” he cut her off with another of those slight—almost uncertain—smiles. Almost as if he did not have much practice in it. Lothíriel wasn’t sure where that sudden assessment had come from, though the thought of it saddened her in a way she couldn’t explain. “One of my riders led her safely through the Dark Door,” he assured. “We have come through the Dimholt, and will be arriving soon in Dunharrow. I thought you might like to be awake to see it for the first time.”

            At this, Lothíriel became aware of her surroundings outside of her current perch. They had indeed emerged back out into open air, a fact for which she was most grateful. She prayed with a faint shudder that she would never again be forced to take that road. The air was colder now than it had been on the other side of the White Mountains, especially as dusk was fast approaching, the sun hovering low on the horizon. She was suddenly glad for the extra warmth of the huge green cloak she was still wrapped up in.

            Lothíriel carefully straightened enough so that she could see out and around her—and to pull herself from such close, intimate contact with the man she rode with. Granted, he wore full leather and mail and she was bundled up in several layers herself. Yet for all that, she was still very aware of the fact that she sat practically in the lap of a man she shared no blood ties with. The steady rocking motions of their mount’s gait didn’t let her forget it either.

            She was still largely innocent, but she wasn’t a fool either. Lothíriel was also very unaccustomed to being in such close proximity to a man. Of course, now would be the time she would become so aware of everyone else that surrounded them. Riders of Rohan as well as her own family and a handful of her father’s men. All of whom seemed unnecessarily interested in her return to consciousness. Elphir cast her a disapproving look from where he rode several lengths away, face dark, while her father’s expression remained curiously neutral.

            Lothíriel felt her cheeks turn hot even in the crisp air, and prayed everyone mistook the color for the wind’s bite and not her sudden, acute embarrassment. She made a desperate grab for her composure, and did her ultimate best to appear calm and at ease. Yet she squirmed a little in an attempt to put a little more distance between herself and the King, where their bodies were currently wedged so tight they seemed as one being. Yet, as soon as she moved, she felt his whole body tense and a he hissed in a curiously sharp breath.

            Immediately she froze again, her eyes flying up to meet his, wondering what she’d done wrong. Thinking she might have somehow hurt him, for his gasp had seemed somewhat pained. Their gazes met and held, and Lothíriel was fascinated—though confused—by the way his dark eyes suddenly seemed to smolder into a hot black-brown. She didn’t know why, but the heated look he was giving her suddenly made her breath hitch and her face grow warmer.

            “Careful now, princess,” he murmured after a tense moment and a slight clearing of his throat. His voice seemed different now too. Deeper . . . almost hoarse. “We are almost to the clearing.”

            Lothíriel pulled her eyes away and stared ahead instead, deciding that staring up into his handsome face was far too dangerous by half. By the Valar, she would have to guard herself closely in the coming weeks, she decided then. While she wished to find some common ground with the young King on which to build a friendly relationship, she did not want to fall head first into some pathetic infatuation doomed to remain unrequited either. A fate which his golden good looks was fast in danger of creating, if the way she was suddenly feeling was to be interpreted.

            She focused on the land around her instead. Already she could see changes. Trees were sparse compared to the Gondorian side of the mountain, the grass thinner on a whole with random spots of denser golden-brown thickets.

            Very soon they entered into a wide clearing, filled with large white tents, men and horses. Many yelled out greeting to Éomer, which he returned warmly. Obviously these were the rest of his _Éored_ , who had awaited his return from under the mountain. She did her best to smile and greet those who called out to her, trying to ignore the fact that she was being weighed and measured most carefully by her soon-to-be husband’s men.

            They continued through the camp. Lothíriel had become quite engrossed with examining her surroundings, enough so that she hardly noticed when their companions slowed and dropped back. Continuing alone, the King guided Firefoot right up to the edge of the cliff. Lothíriel gasped, eyes widening, at her first true glimpse of the land that was to become her new home.

            “Welcome to the Mark, my lady,” Éomer murmured softly.

            “It’s so beautiful,” she whispered, almost to herself, and meant it. The land stretched out before her like an immense golden sea, as far as her eye could discern. “I had read of the vastness of the grasslands,” she continued eagerly, almost forgetting to whom she spoke in her excitement, “but I had never dreamed of the truth.” She turned back to find Éomer staring at her, not of the incredible vista before them. He had that hot look back in his eyes, tempered now by a softness in his expression that immediately brought back her self-consciousness. She dropped her eyes away again and cleared her throat somewhat. “The books of the Great Library do no justice to your lands, sire,” she announced after another uncomfortable moment. “It is truly magnificent.”

            “I am glad to hear it,” he returned finally, and the sound of his voice eased some of her discomfort. “Also that you have apparently taken such an interest in the Riddermark. Faramir wrote to me that you had set to the task of familiarizing yourself with your new home with an . . . impressive dedication.”

            The faint note of humor that returned in his tone told her just how much of her somewhat obsessive reading habits her traitorous cousin had revealed. She’d gut him for sure, for this. While a furiously blushing Lothíriel struggled to come up with something to fill the gap of silence, Éomer spoke instead.

            “I was quite pleased to learn that you can both read and write with ease,” he announced. “Not many in my country can boast of this, unfortunately. How many languages do you know?”

            Lothíriel kept her eyes on the setting sun, finding it much easier to stare at while she spoke, giving an honest accounting of her knowledge. “I can speak, read and write Westron as well as Quenyan and Sindarin Elvish fluently. I have also taught myself enough Rhovannion to translate simple words and runes, though without the tutoring of a native speaker, I could never speak or write it clearly. And I have learned a handful of Rohirric words in this same fashion through my studies.”

            Here she trailed off. Éomer was utterly silent behind her, and she swallowed somewhat nervously. Perhaps she should not have been so blunt. No doubt Éomer could probably only read and write Westron, and even that was a rarity among his people. She had probably come off sounding self-important and snobby.

            “Though, no doubt I murder the pronunciation,” she quickly inserted. “I-I am really only _truly_ fluent in Westron . . . a-and perhaps Quenyan.”

            “It seems I am to wed a true scholar,” he murmured after a moment. The tone of his voice was neutral, but Lothíriel was too afraid to look back and see what emotion would be mirrored in his hazel brown eyes. “You should not try to diminish yourself, little one,” he continued firmly after a slight pause. “Your intelligence is a rare gift, one I truly hope my sons might share in.”

            At the mention of sons—the creation of which she would be intimately involved in—Lothíriel felt her face turn scarlet. Yet Éomer continued, seemingly oblivious, his voice a little faraway now. As if he spoke his inner thoughts aloud.

            “The Kingdom of Rohan can no longer afford to remain so secluded and withdrawn. Too long have we concerned ourselves only with the Mark and its troubles and ignoring all else. If anything, the War of the Ring has taught me that. Renewing the Oath of Eorl was a start, but there are many changes yet to see to, if the Rohirrim are to survive the coming Age.”

            The knowledge that she would have a very large part to play in that task was a daunting one indeed. Yet one that filled her with pride also, so that her shoulders pulled just a little straighter, her chin lifting. They were suddenly interrupted out of their moment by a large blonde, bearded Rohirrim man, one who had not accompanied his King under the mountain. He approached slowly, his posture hesitant.

            “My Lord, Prince Imrahil inquires after the well-being of his daughter,” the man murmured, his deep voice powerful but pitched softly in deference.

            Lothíriel tensed at the reminder of her father. Éomer sighed. “Very well, Gamling,” he heaved.

            The man bowed sharply, then turned on his heel and retreated back into the press of camp. The barest of nudges from Éomer and a sharp click of his tongue had Firefoot turning smartly about and trotting back the way they had come.

            In due time Firefoot was pulled to a stop in front of one of the larger tents, only slightly smaller than the massive pavilion that must be Éomer’s own.

            “Do you think you are well enough to stand?” he questioned. When she nodded, he continued with, “hold fast to the horn.”

            When she’d taken hold of the saddle as he bid her, the King shifted his cloak from around her shoulders, and then in the next breath he was down on the ground at Firefoot’s side. How he managed to make it look so easy she would never know. Just the thought of trying to get down from this great beast’s back on her own was enough to cleave her tongue to the roof of her mouth. Lucky for her the young King had no such intention.

            Not waiting for her father or brothers near by, Éomer issued out a sharp order to his stallion in Rohirric—causing the massive horse to go as still as a statue—then reached up and took her around the waist with both hands. His fingers nearly touched each other in the small of her back. She was given no time to ponder the strange thrill of that, as in the next breath he literally plucked her off the saddle as easily as one might have lifted a daisy from the grass. Startled, she immediately reached out to grasp at his upper arms for purchase.

            _By the Valar, I hope most of these bulges are from the armor,_ she thought, once again struck somewhat breathless.

            Éomer carefully—and effortlessly—lowered her down, until her booted feet were planted back on the ground again at last. It was a long way to travel, and Lothíriel stared up at him with widened eyes. The top of her head barely reached his collarbone. She had chafed somewhat at his calling her “little one,” yet it seemed he was entitled.

            She let go of his arms as soon as she was safely aground, though he was a little slower in releasing her hips, as if he were reluctant to do so. Yet when Elphir suddenly appeared at her side, Éomer let her go completely and took a step back.

            “Rest tonight, princess,” he bade firmly. “We will start later in the morning tomorrow so that you can be properly recovered. And should you suffer from anything else on the journey, you will let your father or myself know immediately.”

            Lothíriel frowned a little at the sudden, commanding tone he had taken. Elphir took exception to it too, if his sudden low-pitched growl of irritation was any indication. Éomer didn’t pay her older brother any mind however, keeping his eyes on her.

            She started to tell him that she was not made of glass, and that she needed no such protective coddling. Then she took in his stubbornly resolute stare and decided that butting heads with him would be a moot point. Besides, it was not as if she had given him any other impression after the underground tunnel fiasco. So instead she nodded obediently to his wishes and said nothing. Pleased with that, Éomer hesitated only a moment more to indulge in a fierce glare with Elphir, curiously enough, before he turned on his heel and walked away. A murmured word in Rohirric had Firefoot trailing after his master as obediently as a well-trained hound.

            “Oh Lothí!” She turned to see Riana hurrying toward her. Her sister-in-law engulfed her in a hug, and she laughed slightly but returned the embrace. “I was so worried! Are you all right? I cannot believe you did not say something about your fears!”

            “I had hoped it would not be a problem,” she answered apologetically. “I did not know I would react so badly. I am sorry.”

            “You do not need to apologize, child,” her father contradicted, reaching out to tenderly brush her hair out of her face once Riana had loosed her. His gray eyes were kind, but stern as well as he continued with, “though King Éomer is right. You will not keep such things a secret in the future.”

            “Yes father,” she immediately agreed. Elphir let out another foul-humored growl at the mention of King Éomer, however.

            “Not that he has any right to say so,” he snapped.

            Lothíriel was slightly taken aback by the amount of venom in his voice, but Imrahil just shook his head while Riana laughed and wrapped an arm around her husband.

            “You will have to learn to let go of this protectiveness, dearest,” she murmured playfully, much to his foul-humored glare. “Lothí is soon to be a wife, a woman of her own, and a Queen. You cannot keep her to yourself forever.”

            “Until the ceremony is over with,” he announced stiffly, “she is still a Princess of Dol Amroth, and father’s daughter. That _Horse-Lord_ would do well to remember it. He treats her far too familiarly.”

            “What, you would prefer he not look at or speak to her at all until _after_ the wedding?” Erchirion demanded incredulously, and Amrothos laughed.

            “Aye, that would make for a warm marriage bed indeed.”

            “All right, you two,” Imrahil cut in firmly.

            “Suddenly I fear for poor Finuviel,” Riana murmured, “when she comes of age to begin drawing suitors. She will probably die an old maid, if her father has anything to say about it.”

            The next Princess of Dol Amroth just giggled unrepentantly in the face of her scowling husband, her humor not in the least bit intimidated by his black looks. She was probably the only one other than his father who could claim such. Even Erchirion and Amrothos—who were known to be some of the most fearless hellions Gondorian nobility had ever seen—would only push Elphir so far. Slender Riana remained completely unfazed by him.

            Not for the first time, Lothíriel marveled at the relationship between her often dour and sullen brother and the light-hearted Riana. They seemed so different, and yet they were so in love with one another—proof being their three year old son and nine month old daughter. For as much as she teased him relentlessly, the fierce spark of affection never left Riana’s green eyes when she gazed up at her husband. And in the times when Elphir thought no one was looking, he would stare at his slender wife with an expression that could only be likened to utter devotion on his face.

            Lothíriel let Riana guide her into the tent. She was quick to shed her heavy layers, down to her thin white chemise, and then washed what she could of the dirt away with the cloth and basin of water that Riana produced. Meanwhile her sister-in-law helped undo her ruined coiffure and gently worked out the tangles.

            The food that was brought in later by her father and brothers was simple but warm and very filling. For Lothíriel, who hadn’t eaten well since yesterday morning, it was heavenly. Wrapped in a warm blue fur-lined robe, she thoroughly enjoyed the playful banter that passed back and forth between her family. She watched it all largely silent from her perch, taking in the scene and committing every detail to memory. It would be one of the last times she would see them all together like this, she well knew. And memories like these would be what would help her get through the months ahead, filled with doubt and uncertainty. Those fears could wait for another day, however. For now she was safe and warm and well-fed, and surrounded by those she loved.


	6. To Edoras

_Dunharrow, Rohan_

_May 1 st of the year 3020 T.A._

            Lothíriel rose early the next morning, just as she thought she would. She was normally an early riser, as one of her favorite things to do back home had been to watch the sunrise over the water from her balcony. Though she had been exhausted the night before, the huge tent she found herself in had been lavishly comforted with a nest of blankets and furs that served as an excellent bed. She had slept soundly the whole night through, and now she was wide awake at just before dawn.

            The idea of lazing away the next three or four hours sat very unwell with her. Besides, she had an important thing to see to that needed her immediate attention. With this in mind, she got silently to her feet and quickly dressed in a dark blue gown and fastened her cloak about her shoulders. She couldn’t get her hair up into a proper coil without Riana’s help, so settled instead with brushing out the night’s tangles and then putting it into a simple braid. Hopefully not many would be up at this hour to catch her in a less than proper state.

            Lothíriel slipped into her boots, then crept to the front of the tent. She carefully pushed the flap aside, glancing about. As she had hoped, the man her father had placed near-by to keep an extra eye on her had grown lax with so many armed and well-trained Rohirrim about, and slumped over at his post, dozing. She allowed herself a slight smirk of triumph, then she slipped out of the tent and crept away.

            She never noticed the green-cloaked man on the opposite side, who had been inconspicuously kneeling in the shadows of another tent. He got silently to his feet and began tailing her. Instead Lothíriel made her way through camp, careful to avoid anyone who was awake, skirting around tents when necessary. Until, at last, she made her way to where the horses were kept.

            She had worried last night over Gyldenfax, but her father would not hear of her going out to see to the mare herself, as she had done ever since the mare had been given to her. The Rohirrim who had accompanied the horse on her journey had told her that it was customary for the rider to care for his own mount in Rohan, even nobility. The chores increased the bond between horse and rider, and the stronger the bond the more loyal the horse.

            And a loyal horse could well save your life one day.

            The large golden mare was secured off to the side, away from most of the other horses. As soon as she sensed that Lothíriel was near, she let out an excited nicker, tugging at her restraint. The princess smiled, then hurried over. Gyldenfax nudged her soft pink nose directly into Lothíriel’s hands.

            “Hello my beauty,” she murmured affectionately. “I missed caring for you last night. I apologize for that. Father wouldn’t let me.” She ran her hands down the powerful neck, smoothing down the golden fur. It was soft and clean, obviously someone had cared well for the horse. Not that she expected anything less of the Rohirrim, though it still chafed her to have the chore done by someone else.

            Lothíriel continued to pet the mare, smiling when she nudged at her skirts. Usually she would bring a treat in the mornings, though there were none at hand now. She sighed, reaching up to smooth away the forelock of white hair out of Gyldenfax’s eyes.

            “I am sorry if I scared you yesterday,” she murmured. “I scared myself a little. I would never have forgiven myself if you’d been hurt. Something tells me you would not have forgiven yourself either.”

            At this, Gyldenfax suddenly dropped her head and almost seemed to nod, making Lothíriel smile wider. It was the reason she tended to carry on conversations with the mare, despite her brothers’ teasing. At times such as these, it was almost as if Gyldenfax could actually understand her.

            After a moment Gyldenfax let out another nicker, this one louder, almost plaintive. Surprisingly she was answered by another from behind her, a louder whinny. Lothíriel turned and laughed when she saw the King’s stallion, Firefoot. The great dapple gray was posturing—no doubt for Gyldenfax’s benefit—tossing his head and pawing the earth.

            “Taken a fancy to him, have you?” she murmured teasingly, rubbing her mare’s nose. “He is a handsome brute, I will give you that.”

            “Aren’t you supposed to be asleep?”

            Lothíriel whirled around with a sharp gasp, and her eyes widened in dread at the sight of Éomer standing near by. He was dressed in a simple pair of dull brown breeches and a white under tunic, untucked and half undone from the neck as if he had dressed in haste or not given much care to the chore. What concerned her most was that the monstrous breadth of his powerful shoulders and barrel-wide chest had not been from the armor, as she had half-hoped. The bronzed ridges of muscle she could glimpse now were apparently all his own. His golden hair fell in a curly tangle down around his face and over one shoulder, completely loose now and tugged slightly by the stiff breeze that suddenly washed over them.

            Lothíriel gulped, uncertain. Éomer’s expression now was neutral, and she could tell nothing of his mood from it or the tone of his voice, which had been carefully flat.

            “I distinctly recall telling you to stay abed this morning,” he continued. His voice remained controlled, but there was just something in the way he was looking at her that somehow told her he was teasing her. She frowned, instantly nettled by his presumptions.

            “And I distinctly recall that you are not my husband yet, Éomer King,” she snapped back, then nearly swallowed her tongue. Her eyes widened for a split instant of cold terror. _Where in all the holy places of the world had_ that _just come from!_

            Yet, instead of take offense, her words caused a broad grin to suddenly twist his features and Éomer threw his head back for a loud bark of laughter.

            “I-I . . . I am sorry,” she started, but he waved her down. Instead he came nearer, still smiling.

            “Do not apologize for that refreshing flash of temper. You are right, I overstep myself. Nowadays Éowyn is the only one who dares to tell me so. I am glad you do not feel too intimidated by my title. Yet . . . I am sure that your father must have given you similar instruction,” he heaved craftily as he came to a stop next to the wooden post the horses were tethered to. He leaned his hip against it, crossed his arms and gave her a look beneath his raised brow that made her want to squirm like an errant child. “What could possibly be so important you would risk such censure, from me and your father?”

            “I was worried about Gyldenfax,” she revealed reluctantly on the tail end of a sigh. “That and I have always been an early riser, and staying in bed for no other reason than to be idle does not sit well with me. I feel perfectly fine,” she assured when he would have said something else. She hesitated, then, “I assure you, I am not made of glass, my lord. I will not shatter at the first hint of strain.”

            “Indeed,” was his reply after a moment, and that strangely thrilling rasp had come back in his voice. Lothíriel found herself blushing, not knowing why, and looking away again.

            They were interrupted by another loud proclamation from Firefoot. Éomer laughed.

            “It seems he’s a little desperate for attention,” Lothíriel chuckled when they both turned to the larger stallion. Éomer nodded.

            “He became infatuated with Gyldenfax last winter, and wouldn’t even look at me for weeks after I sent her away,” the King revealed with a boyish grin. “It appears as though he’s eager to make up for lost ground.” He shook his head then, heaving a pained sigh. “Have some dignity, man,” he snapped out when Firefoot started to rear back, striking a pompous pose for Gyldenfax’s dubiously snorting benefit. “You’re acting no better than a love-struck yearling.”

            Lothíriel could only laugh.

            “They would make a fine foal, I should think,” she ventured after a moment, taking pity on the stallion. He nodded.

            “I had thought of it. We shall see. Perhaps next year, or the year after. It wouldn’t be fair to lose your mare to foaling just after you got her.”

            Lothíriel started to say that she didn’t mind, but was interrupted by a new voice.

            “Ah, what a fine morning this is.”

            They both turned to see Faramir loping toward them, hands behind his back and an unrepentant smirk on his face. Lothíriel groaned inwardly. When her cousin was wearing that particular expression he was feeling especially devious. Éomer didn’t look too particularly pleased to see the Prince of Ithilien either, if his dark glower was to be any indication. Yet Faramir seemed completely oblivious to either of them.

            “It is good to see you up and about, cousin,” he announced pleasantly, bending down to place a kiss on the curve of her cheek. Lothíriel blinked, somewhat taken aback. Faramir had not greeted her so familiarly in many years. It wasn’t that she was upset by it, more confused, wondering why he would choose to do so now.

            Lothíriel completely missed Éomer’s reaction to it, which was to let a fierce scowl blacken his features for an instant, which might have shed some light on the reasons.

            “You might want to make your way back to your tent,” Faramir advised pleasantly. “Your father and brothers will not be far behind me. I doubt they will find this impromptu outing as humorous as I do.”

            Lothíriel blanched. She would rather not be caught outside by her father if she could help it, in no mood for a lecture. Therefore she bade both men a hasty goodbye, then hurried back the way she had come.

 

* * *

“It seems Firefoot is not the only one posturing and preening,” Faramir observed with a grin as soon as the princess was out of ear-shot.

            Éomer gave his sister’s husband a scowl that was largely wasted, as it was no doubt impossible for any man to appear intimidating while their face heated with guilty embarrassment.

            Truthfully he _did_ feel a little like Firefoot. Twisted up with wanting and more than a little unsettled by it. Yesterday upon their first meeting, he had recognized that Lothíriel was female and not displeasing to his eye, but that had been about all. In fact he had put more than one passing thought to her tiny body and wondered if he could come to see her as more than a child in his eyes.

            Then the disaster under the mountain had occurred, and he had ridden for a number of hours with her _tiny body_ cuddled up and practically wrapped around his own. This had led to the discovery that, while small in stature and slender in build, his future wife was very much _not_ a child. Her curves were like the rest of her—delicate, but most certainly there. Yet that still hadn’t proven a problem . . . until he woke her up.

            She’d balked at first, letting out the sweetest little kittenish murmur of protest and burying her face deeper into his chest. Grinning at the adorableness of it, he’d leaned down to speak in her ear, so he wouldn’t be overheard by the others around him. Lothíriel had finally stirred at that, murmuring again and slowly turning her face up to his. She had stared up at him uncomprehending for several moments, her huge eyes heavy-lidded and misty with sleep, full lips parted and now only inches from his. Éomer had been momentarily stunned by the fierce jolt of awareness that had shot through his every pore. Hot need pooled in low after it.

            Lucky for him, she was too innocent to recognize what it was he was thinking or feeling. That it had only been the twenty or so eyes watching them that kept the King of Rohan from bending his head to close those precious few inches between them and find out just what his little bride would taste like. His discomfit had only increased as she wriggled and writhed in his grip, naive to the fact that her hip was tucked into his groin and that every little move she made was an erotic torture that soon had him in a cold sweat.

            To hear her ill-hidden excitement and delight at her first glimpse of the Mark had only worsened his sudden need. The knowledge that his little bride could speak and write more languages than the whole of the royal court in Meduseld did nothing to dampen his mounting desire either. Indeed, by the time he’d deposited her in front of her father, Éomer was twisted up so hard into a knot of raging lust he could barely walk. He had been very glad for the heavy mail he wore, else he’d have died of shame.

            His sleep last night had been a long time in coming, and fitful by the time it did arrive. Only to be awoken by one of his _Éored_ at dawn, informing him that Lothíriel had just snuck out of her tent and was making her way toward the horses. Though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, for a moment he had been seized with panic. What if she thought to flee him? Did he repulse her that much?

            Éomer had stormed out of his pavilion barely dressed, and practically ran to the ropes. Yet he didn’t find his future wife trying to mount her mare and slip off into the morning fog. Instead he found her standing at Gyldenfax’s side, petting the _Mearas_ and . . . talking to her. Éomer stood silent, unseen, and watched as she spoke to the horse, utterly entranced. And her inky black hair— _Béma_ preserve him—was only secured in a simple plait that fell down her back, the tips swinging down well to the backs of her thighs. The young King found himself consumed with a sudden, fierce desire to release that binding and see those inky tendrils completely loose and wanton. To see them spread out around her on his bed furs in the Golden Hall . . . .

            Needless to say, he was now just as hard and uncomfortable as he had been last night. And something told him Faramir knew it, curse and rot the man. He was far too clever for his own good.

            “It would sadden me to have to widow my sister so soon after becoming a wife, Prince of Ithilien,” he ground out, tone rough. Faramir’s grin only widened.

            “Would it indeed? Well, there’s a comforting thought. I must profess; it would sadden me as well.” Éomer started to snap then that he had best shut his mouth, yet he didn’t and what Faramir said next had the young King of Rohan gaping like an idiot. “I would hate to leave this world before getting the chance to see my first child born.”

            Éomer just stared, blinking, and Faramir’s mock-serious expression melted into a deep chuckle at the sight of his stupor.

            “Éowyn . . . she is . . . ?”

            “At least three months along,” Faramir confirmed with a nod. His blue eyes twinkled with humor. “But you mustn’t say a word. She has been trying to keep it a secret from everyone, including me. I think she wants to make a surprise announcement once we reach Edoras. So you will have to give me your word that you will act astonished when she does reveal it,” Faramir demanded then, his tone suddenly serious. “I would not have her surprise ruined.”

            It struck Éomer then, just how very much this man loved his sister. Faramir was a sometimes frighteningly astute man, no doubt he had figured that Éomer would end up discovering Éowyn’s little secret ere they reached Meduseld. He had already guessed that she was hiding _something_ after all, just not what. Now Faramir was trying to ensure that, if not a complete secret by the time she finally revealed it, Éowyn would still get the reaction she craved. Éomer just shook his head with a grin.

            “I shall save my congratulations then, until my exasperating sister decides to reveal that she’s breeding Ithilien’s heir.” He laughed then, and Faramir joined him. “Only Éowyn would have the audacity to keep something so momentous a secret from one and all, including the babe’s father.”

            Éomer stepped over to his restless stallion then, and set about calming the poor lad. Faramir accompanied him, and sighed at his words.

            “I do not think she even suspected the truth herself until a few weeks ago. I only guessed it due to her odd sickness, purging her food at all hours of the day for no reason at all and then be perfectly fine afterward. That, and the naps.” Éomer glanced at him with a lifted brow and Faramir nodded with a grin. “She has started to take naps in the afternoon. And my little warrior is not one to idly sleep away the hours of the day.”

            “True enough,” Éomer agreed with a chuckle. He settled Firefoot with a few chunks of apple and some murmured words in Rohirric. Then he moved to treat Gyldenfax with the same, his voice softer and more gentle than the one he’d used with his own stallion. The pretty mare nickered softly in return, gently nuzzling his face, while he ran his hands down her powerful neck. Faramir was silent at his side for several moments, then,

            “It would seem you have taken to our little Lothí.” Éomer shot him a glare, but Faramir raised his hand. “I do not tease you, my friend. I only seek to know your true feelings on the matter. Lothíriel is very precious to me. We have always been close, ever since early childhood. Out of everything she might claim for herself, her only thought is to please you and your people, and to not become a disappointment to her father. She thinks nothing of her own happiness.”

            Unaware of just what it was he was revealing to the clever Prince, Éomer turned suddenly with a fierce frown.

            “You do not think she will be happy in the Mark?” he demanded. “Has she professed any doubts to you?” Faramir kept his expression carefully neutral.

            “Why would they matter? The betrothal is sealed, you are all but wed.”

            Éomer scowled. “If she is unhappy with the match, I will not go through with the ceremony,” he announced in a growl. “I will return every kernel of grain her father sent me and they can march right back to the sea. I will not marry an unwilling woman.”

            Faramir hesitated a moment, then, “you sound especially fierce, my friend. Why is that?”

            Éomer glanced off to the side for a moment, and when he finally turned back, the Prince of Ithilien was slightly taken aback by the ravaged expression on the young King’s face.

            “When I was still a boy, I watched my mother slowly wither away and die of sorrow after my father was cut down by Orcs,” he heaved, tone hoarse. “And then I watched my sister—weighted down by her grief for our parents and our enfeebled uncle—start to withdraw from the world around her. In the Houses of Healing she very nearly died of that same gnawing despair that took our mother.” His voice was shaking with resolve at the end. “I will not sit idly by and watch a third.”

 

* * *

            Lothíriel didn’t manage to sneak back into her tent unscathed, unfortunately. Elphir was waiting for her inside, his expression extremely disapproving. She sighed heavily, but refused to hang her head as she might have done in her youth. Instead she glided back inside and struggled to maintain her mask of cool indifference.

            “You must be more careful, sister,” he announced sternly after a moment.

            “Careful of what?”

            “Of your reputation,” he snapped back at her airy disregard. She blinked, turning to him in surprise, and he scowled down at her in return. “You represent our entire fief, Lothíriel. Anything you do will reflect back upon us. You _must_ remember that.”

            “Elphir, I haven’t done anything wrong,” she protested, but her eldest brother shook his head.

            “You may be betrothed, but you are not married yet,” he inserted sternly. “You have to maintain a level of distance until after the wedding. Else people will start to talk. You don’t want your new subjects getting the wrong idea about you.”

            Lothíriel blanched, eyes wide. She bit her lip in sudden worry. Had her behavior really been so bad? Were the _Éored_ speaking ill of her behind her back? She winced, as she realized that in Gondor her behavior would have been seen as utterly scandalous at the very least, completely shameful at worst. Elphir sighed then at her aghast look, and reached out to grip her shoulder comfortingly.

            “I am only trying to look out for you, Lothí,” he murmured. “I know it can be hard, and you would certainly wish to get to know the King more personally before you are wed. I understand that. To do so however will be seen as . . . highly irregular. You must try very hard to conduct yourself more properly for the rest of the journey, and especially once we reach Edoras. In these coming weeks you will be under the very close eye of the full court of Meduseld, and eventually the King and Queen of Gondor themselves. Such close scrutiny can have very strong and lasting effects. Please remember that.”

            Subdued, Lothíriel nodded, eyes falling away.

            “You are right, Elphir,” she murmured softly. “I am sorry if I have shamed you or father. I . . . I will try to act more properly from now on.”

            Suddenly Elphir’s hand was beneath her chin, lifting her eyes from the floor. She was graced with one of his rare smiles then, his silver eyes darkening to a soft pewter.

            “I know you will,” he murmured. “I know.” He leaned down and planted a gentle kiss to her brow, quirked her chin, then turned away.

            Elphir ducked out of the tent then, completely missing his sister’s very troubled and anxious stare at his back.


	7. Misunderstandings

_Edoras, Rohan_

_May 6 th of the year 3020 T.A._

            Lothíriel felt her eyes widen, staring at the awe-inspiring vista before her. The grasslands stretched out for at least a mile or more, and on the horizon an enormous hill jutted out of the otherwise flat plains. Buildings and rooftops dotted the entirety, the perimeter surrounded by towering palisades, and at the top, an enormous building that was far larger than the rest. That would be Meduseld, the Golden Hall, ancestral seat of the King of Rohan.

            They had reached Edoras at last.

            Lothíriel could have wept with relief. At last, she could get a real bath in warm water, she could sleep in a real bed, and—for a few hours at least—she could escape the prying eyes of everyone around her and have a few moments peace to herself. Over the past few days she had become so confused and turned about she wasn’t really sure which way was up anymore. Everything had become so complicated. She wasn’t even sure when or why.

            Following Elphir’s visit, Lothíriel had promised herself that she would do her utmost to follow his advice and act more like a true princess of Gondor. She had conducted herself in a way that even her Aunt Ivriniel wouldn’t have been able to find fault in, keeping her expression carefully neutral, her words few and kept a careful distance from all who were not related to her. Where before she might have sought out the King or one of his Riders to ask them about the land they were traveling through—eager to soak up any new knowledge like a sponge to water—she instead kept to herself and remained aloof and withdrawn, as ladies were expected.

            Her father seemed intrigued by her change of temperament, her brother Elphir very pleased, and her other brothers threw her confused looks but said nothing. It was hard to tell what Faramir was thinking exactly, though Éowyn seemed troubled. Again, however, the White Lady offered no advice on what she found lacking in her behavior.

            What worried her the most, however, was that it took no great scholar to tell that something was bothering her soon-to-be-husband. When they had stirred for travel that first morning, his face had been dark and distant. Even if she _was_ inclined to approach him, his thunderous expression would have kept her at bay. His mood did not improve during their last week of travel, indeed it only seemed to worsen. Until he was growling and snapping at everyone but Éowyn and spending most of his time not in a saddle in ill-tempered solitude.

            Lothíriel was terrified that she was the cause. Perhaps his _Éored_ had begun speaking ill of her to him, telling him that they didn’t feel she was a worthy Queen of their land. Perhaps he was even now brooding on a way to break their betrothal before the wedding could take place, binding him eternally to a horrid mistake.

            This thought only firmed her resolve to do everything in her power to act properly and show the people of Rohan—including her betrothed—that she could do this right.

            As they neared the city, three of the Rohirrim raised horns to their lips and released a deep and strangely eerie sound, one that sent the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck to stand on end. Amrothos and Erchirion had told her of the sound of Rohirrim horns, last heard on the Fields of Pelennor when the Horse-Lords had come unexpectedly to their people’s aid. They had laughed and said it was a sound that the Orcs of the Black Land would not soon forget. She now had no doubt of it.

            Moments later, an answering bellow sounded from within the city, and then the enormous gates of Edoras began to open.

            People lined the main street to see their procession pass. Most were yelling and cheering at the return of their King, but also at the return of Lady Éowyn as well, Lothíriel suspected. Both of them were smiling and waving to their people as they passed. Lothíriel watched it all enviously, wondering if she might one day garner such a loving and devoted response. Not even in Dol Amroth were the people so openly affectionate of their sovereigns.

            As they traveled through, the Riders began breaking away in groups, heading off to their own stable yards she assumed, until only the King and everyone from Gondor remained. They continued through until the streets of Edoras gave way to the base of a higher plateau. Here there was a huge stable and what Lothíriel guessed to be guard houses and watch towers. Éomer led the procession into the stable, where several hands stood ready to attend him.

            “Have the horses unsaddled, rubbed down and stalled,” Éomer called out as he dismounted. “Haleth, show Prince Imrahil’s men where they can bed down,” he continued as he handed Firefoot’s reins to one of the stable boys. The young, armored Rohirrim at the door motioned, and the Swan Knights slowly filed out behind him.

            Éomer led everyone else out of the stables and then up a lone, broad stair, which led up to a wide green terrace and a paved area on which sat the Golden Hall itself, it’s thatched roof gleaming like pure gold in the afternoon sun. Guards stood at every corner, two at the huge carved doors themselves that faced northward and would lead inside. They were carved in the shape of several beasts and birds with jewels for eyes and golden claws—a truly magnificent sight. Several of the white horse banners and pennons flapped madly in the strong breeze that blew, and also tore mercilessly at her cloak and skirts. Lothíriel bowed her head slightly against it and hurried after the group, not wanting to be left behind.

            The men standing sentinel all snapped to attention at Éomer’s approach. He acknowledged them with a weary nod, then allowed them to push open the doors for him. The heavy portals gave way with a loud and thunderous creak, telling of its great size as well as its age. The Gondorian princess was suitably subdued by it and what came next.

            The entryway opened up into an immense grand hall. The high roof was supported by pillars that were decorated with carvings painted gold and green. There was a louver in the ceiling high above their heads that let out smoke and let in light. Light also came into the hall through slitted, unglazed windows under the eaves on the eastern side. All around them, great tapestries hung on the walls depicting scenes and people that were no doubt important to the Rohirrim’s history. Lothíriel was as of yet unfamiliar with any specifics, but she suddenly itched to discover their secrets. The woman in her also took note that many of the beautiful pieces looked as though they had gone too many years in neglect, showing the dust of time and faded with age.

            In the middle of the hall was a long hearth, currently cold. And finally, at the south end of the hall facing the door was a dais with three steps, and on the dais was a great gilded chair; the King’s Seat, throne of the Kingdom of Rohan. Éomer paid it little heed as he turned immediately to two large, armored men. One was red-headed with a great, bushy beard to match. The other possessed fairer chestnut blonde locks.

            “Erkenbrand, Elfhelm, how fares Edoras?” The men, though at least a decade or more older than the young King, both gave him a deep bow of respect.

            “My Lord, it is good to see you returned safely,” the redhead announced. “All has passed peacefully during your absence. Only a few minor details need your attention, which,” he hastened to add, at Éomer’s pained look, “certainly may wait until you have bathed and rested at least.”

            Éomer smiled slightly, the first time in many days, and reached up to clasp the older man’s shoulder a moment in a show of thanks before he gave the other the same, then turned to make introductions. Éowyn and Faramir were both met warmly, and then Éomer led them to where Lothíriel stood at her father’s side.

            “Prince Imrahil and his sons you have met,” Éomer was saying, his face devoid of any real emotion and his voice neutral, “but this is his daughter, Lady Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth. Also the lady who has accepted my suit. My Lady, might I present to you two of my most loyal men. Lord Erkenbrand, Marshal of the West-mark,” he indicated the redheaded man to his right, then the blonde on his left. “And Lord Elfhelm, Marshal of the East-mark.”

            Both men bowed respectfully, and she nodded in return to their deference.

            “It is an honor to make your acquaintance my lords,” she returned, voice a little soft with her nervousness. Neither man showed any real outward reaction, and she found herself terrified, wondering if they were finding her lacking in some way. She was also very disconcerted with her betrothed’s piercing stare, his dark eyes strangely intent and pinning her to the spot.

            She was therefore very grateful when Éomer turned away at last and motioned for a woman who had been hovering near the edge of the hall to come nearer. She moved forward, her long auburn hair mostly loose with only the top layers secured in a small braided chignon at her crown, dressed in a plain but cleanly olive green dress. She bowed her head low to the King.

            “Frecca, see them all put in rooms with warm baths fetched,” he ordered, taking firm charge of the situation in a way one might expect him to bark out battle orders to his _Éored_. “Also perhaps a light repast before dinner,” he continued, “as we rode straight through the midday meal in our haste to return home.”

            Frecca nodded to indicate she had heard, then turned to call out her own orders to the army of servants who had seemed to materialize out of nowhere. Éowyn and Faramir were led off in one direction, Amrothos and Erchirion in another. Elphir, Riana and their two children were taken down a separate hall, and her father another still. Until, finally, Frecca came up to her at last and offered her a warm smile.

            “I am pleased to meet you at last my lady,” she murmured pleasantly. “I am Frecca, originally of Westmarch. Before Lady Éowyn left for Ithilien, she named me head of the maids here in Meduseld.” Here her dark eyes fell away somewhat uncertainly. “I hope that I please you enough to continue in this endeavor.”

            Lothíriel gave the woman a serene look, fighting to keep her utter exhaustion off her face. “I trust the White Lady’s tastes as well as her discretion. I am sure she would not have appointed you to such a position if she did not feel you were capable of completing your tasks efficiently.”

            Apparently she didn’t do a good enough job of playing serene. Frecca’s expression became chiding.

            “Oh listen to me, jabbering your ears off with you about to wilt to the floor from fatigue. Come, follow me milady. You’ll have a hot bath straight away, and a soft bed to rest in for a few hours at least.”

            Her control slipped just a little, her shoulders drooping. “Oh that sounds divine.”

            Frecca smiled, taking her by the shoulder as Riana might have—in an older sister sort of way—and led her from the great hall. They made their way down several halls, all with doors of varying size and shape and decoration. Probably the largest difference between the building she found herself in now and the ones she was more familiar with were the fact that Meduseld seemed largely comprised of wood, where-as buildings in Gondor were almost all made of carved stone. Even the palace of Dol Amroth—while more airy and open than the city of Minas Tirith in order to let in the cool sea breezes—was still mostly made of lavender blue granite. Meduseld was sealed and closed in tightly, no doubt to ward away what promised to be quite a fierce winter chill. The darkened halls were lit by grand iron braziers and torch scones that lined the walls.

            It wasn’t long before she felt completely turned around and lost. Frecca must have interpreted her wide-eyed, nervous glances for she merely chuckled and gave her shoulder a friendly squeeze.

            “Worry not, my lady. In time you will grow to know Meduseld as well as you do your former home. It can seem a bit intimidating at first, but do not despair.”

            They came to one of the larger doors, and Frecca lifted the iron handle and pushed inside. Lothíriel followed a little more slowly, taking in her surroundings.

            Her room at home had been very spacious and airy, few furnishings, lots of plush velveteen rugs and silk wall hangings that would shift and sigh with the sea breeze being let in from her enormous balcony window. This room was very much different. There were no windows, and the space itself was much smaller, no doubt in order to conserve heat. The walls were covered with more wall tapestries rather than silk banners, these in slightly better repair than the ones in the hall but not by much. And on the floor, no rugs of thread or velvet, but rather stitched animal furs of tan and cream. The bed in the center of the room was a lot larger than the one she had back home, covered as well in furs as well as blankets of deep green and gold.

            Near the foot of the bed, a young girl no older than twelve or thirteen at most was struggling to fill a large wooden tub with steaming buckets of water. She hesitated at their entrance, and then quickly straightened up, smoothing down her rumpled red and blue skirts. She had blonde hair secured haphazardly behind her, big brown eyes and a winning smile that reminded Lothíriel of the woman who had led her here.

            “This is Freda, my lady,” Frecca announced, smiling. “My daughter,” she then confirmed. “Freda has been given the duty of filling in as your lady’s maid, until you appoint someone of your own choosing to the task.” She turned to quirk her daughter’s chin. “She is a bit young yet, my lady, but she is eager to please and a fast learner. She will have your needs well memorized before the end of the night, I guarantee it.”

            Lothíriel could tell they were both nervous that she might disapprove a maid so young. Quite honestly, she really had no preference, just so long as she got to strip her grimy dress off and sink down into that steaming tub at all haste. She gave them both a reassuring smile.

            “I am sure she will suit just fine, mistress Frecca. Be at ease.” Frecca bowed her head in acknowledgement, then turned to her child.

            “Finish filling her bath, Freda, then begin airing out the lady’s gowns. She must have fresh clothes for supper tonight. Put the rest of her things away.”

            “Yes mama,” the girl breathed, her voice airy and sweet. Frecca gave one last smile to Lothíriel, then turned and hurried out of the chamber, closing the door solidly behind her.

            Freda immediately turned back to her task, so Lothíriel took this moment to divest herself of her riding gloves, boots and cloak.

            “You can set your things there beside the door, my lady,” came Freda’s pleasant voice, only slightly strained a she hefted up a full bucket and added it to the tub with a splash. “I will take them to be cleaned along with all of your other soiled clothes while you sup tonight. I took the liberty of setting out your bathing salts,” Freda suddenly announced, motioning to the small blue velvet drawstring bag. She bit her lip a little. “I hope you do not mind my presumption.”

            “Oh no, it is fine,” Lothíriel quickly assured. “Saves me having to search for them.” The girl giggled, then emptied the last of her buckets.

            “Do you have a preference, my lady?” Lothíriel hesitated, then,

            “The small blue bottle, I think.”

            Freda fished out the bottle she had described, then uncorked it and added a small bit. Instantly the room began to smell of chamomile.

            “Apples!” Freda exclaimed, utterly delighted. She gave a giggle, then seemed to remember herself and recorked the bottle with a small gasp. She replaced it in its bag, then hurried around the tub and approached her. Lothíriel was a little disconcerted to discover that the child was very nearly as tall as she was. “Shall I help you with your gown, my lady?”

            “Just loosen the ties at my back please,” she bade. “I think I can manage the rest on my own. I would not like to keep you from your other chores.”

            Freda nodded in agreement, then did as she was told, with nimble and efficient fingers. She seemed remarkably well possessed and mature for her age, turning at once to start hanging Lothíriel’s gowns and putting everything else away. If Freda gave her no reason to decide otherwise, she just might decide to keep the precocious blonde on as her maid permanently. She could find no fault with her so far. Indeed, so far she was proving even more efficient at her tasks than Dolwen—her former maid in Dol Amroth—had been. And Dolwen was nearing her nineteenth year.

            Lothíriel forgot about everything else as soon as she sank down into the blessedly hot water. “Valar be praised,” she hissed, causing Freda to giggle.

            “If you wish me to help wash your hair or your back my lady, you have only to call,” she assured, her voice slightly muffled, as she was currently half buried into one of Lothíriel’s travel bags.

            While Freda continued to unpack, Lothíriel allowed herself to languish a bit in the bath, letting her sore and tired muscles relax. Finally, after a moment, she got started on the business of scrubbing the dirt and grime of travel from her body. They didn’t have sea sponges like back home, but the slightly rough-textured cloth served its purpose just fine.

            She was in the process of soaping up her tangled black hair when Freda’s exclamation on the other side of the room caught her attention. She turned to see what was the matter, and smiled.

            Freda stood, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, holding a brilliant silver gown. The swooping neck, flaring hem and long sleeves were embroidered with pearls and chips of sapphire. The cloth of the gown was made with ultra fine mithril thread, so that it gleamed and shimmered even in the dull light of the room’s only brazier. The cape that attached to the neckline, sweeping back for nearly four feet in length, was decorated with a large white swan in flight, the eyes made of two sapphires the size of her pinkie nail.

            “It is the dress of a fairy princess,” the girl whispered. Lothíriel chuckled.

            “It was my mother’s wedding gown,” she revealed softly. “I had hoped it might serve the same purpose for me.”

            Freda’s movements were very careful—bordering on reverent—as she moved to hang up the gown so that the few wrinkles could be properly aired away.

            “Dol Amroth must be a very fine kingdom indeed,” the child murmured after a moment. Lothíriel gave her a questioning look, and Freda shrugged. “It seems only in dreams do people wear such wonders as clothing,” she announced softly, reaching out to run a gentle finger down the embroidered neckline before she suddenly remembered herself and jerked her hand away.

            Lothíriel bit her lip, glancing at the gown again. It _was_ a bit much. Perhaps it would be _too_ much. The kingdom of Rohan was fresh from war, after all. If not for her father’s aide, they likely would not have survived the winter. Maybe such a blatant display of wealth would be seen as insulting? She winced. It probably would. But she had looked forward to wearing her mother’s wedding gown. It had taken her nearly two months to alter the gown to fit her.

            In order to take her mind and Freda’s off of the touchy subject, she sat straighter in the tub. “I could use your assistance,” she called. The Rohirrim girl turned immediately from the gown, then hurried over. Lothíriel allowed Freda to help rinse the soap from her hair, even though she was quite capable of doing it on her own. She endured the silence for a moment, eyes closed to keep the soap out of them, then,

            “Your mother mentioned that you were originally from the Westfold. What brought you to Edoras?”

            “The war,” was Freda’s immediate and easy answer. Lothíriel tensed uncomfortably, but Freda continued, oblivious. “My papa was killed in the First Battle of Isen. Not long after, the Dunlendings burned and sacked our village. Mama sent me and my brother Eothain to Edoras to raise the alarm and worn King Théoden of what was happening while she fled to Helm’s Deep. We rode Garulf, my papa’s horse, all the way here, all by ourselves,” she announced cheerily. “Afterward, we left with the rest of the city to Helm’s Deep, where mama had gone. Then we were attacked by the Uruk-hai from Isengard. Me and mama were sent to the caves, but Eothain had to fight. He was hurt pretty badly, but he survived. He’s serving as one of the King’s Riders now,” she then announced proudly. “And since our home was burned, Lady Éowyn offered to let mama and I stay on in Meduseld as maids. I must confess, it is much better than milking cows and chasing chickens all day,” she then revealed with a conspiratorial laugh.

            Lothíriel smiled with her, though inwardly she was cringing. Such horrors this poor little one had seen, and so young! No wonder she seemed so old for her age.

            She sat up after a moment, and allowed Freda to dunk the last bucket of cooling water over her head, to help remove the last of the soap from her hair. Then she stood and let Freda wrap her up in a huge drying cloth. Lothíriel was suddenly grateful for the furs, as they protected her now freezing toes from the unforgiving stone floor while Freda took her comb and worked out the tangles.

            “Your hair is so long my lady,” she complimented cheerfully and she laughed.

            “Aye, I have never cut it. It is my one vanity I think. Go ahead and leave it loose for now, it will dry faster that way.”

            After her hair was combed somewhat dry and her body toweled off, she dressed in one of her white shifts and then headed for the bed. Freda helped her pull back the heavy linens and furs.

            “Get you some rest, my lady,” Freda encouraged as Lothíriel crawled up into the large four poster like a child and practically collapsed into the softness with a loud groan. Freda giggled. “You have two or three hours or more before supper is called. That should refresh you I think.”

            Lothíriel was asleep before the last fur had been settled over her exhausted body.


	8. Day Fast Approaches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Éomer has all the UST. All of it.

            Éomer stood out on the terrace of Meduseld five days after his return, troubled eyes staring at nowhere in particular. They drifted across the grasslands, touched on the peaks of the Misty Mountains, but his thoughts were not of them. They were instead consumed by his exasperatingly confusing betrothed and they refused to shake free of her, no matter how hard he tried.

            That first day he had thought her timid, but not unapproachable. She had actually been quite pleasant company, fun to tease but not so wilting she couldn’t give a little back. That is, before Faramir showed up. Then something had happened after that morning, for now she no longer seemed to show any interest in what was around her at all. Faramir had said she was eager to learn anything new, yet so far she had kept herself mostly confined to her room, only coming out at meal times and when she was directly asked. And when she did make an appearance, she was distant and cold instead of the sweetly shy and curious creature that had first drawn his eye. Imrahil and Faramir both tried to assure him when he’d asked that she was not upset or angry, yet her actions directly contradicted them.

            What had happened to sour her against him? Or was her delight in the Mark at Dunharrow merely feigned, and now she could no longer hide her distaste for what was to be her new home? His advisors were growing restless with their uncertainty, questioning his decision to marry her. No one wanted to appoint a Queen who hated her country.

            Yet Éomer feared he was fast approaching a point where he would have no other choice in the matter.

            The King faced into the strong wind, letting it tear at his cloak and hair, bringing water to his eyes, hoping the force would tear away the frustration and anger that ate at him as well. Would that he could grow to dislike or hate her because of this behavior. He would promptly return the supplies Imrahil had given and profess that this marriage had been a mistake, then send them home with Aragorn.

            Yet . . . he couldn’t. No matter how hard he tried, how firmly he attempted to steel himself against her, telling himself that she had been playing him false and wanted nothing to do with him or the Mark, it wouldn’t work. Lothíriel had done something to him, under the mountain. Carved out a place for herself in him, and now he couldn’t seem to get her back out. Every once in a while he would glance at her and catch a glimpse of interest on her heart-shaped face, her wide blue-gray eyes lit up and fixed eagerly on some curious thing. He would begin to doubt himself all over again.

            And, damn him, but he _wanted_ her.

            Ever since he’d ridden with her on Firefoot and discovered that he could be physically attracted to such a tiny little female, it had been eating at him constantly. Thoughts of her plagued him during the day, making any councils or meetings with his subjects practically useless. And at night . . . He groaned now, raising a hand to scrub at his face. At night his dreams were haunted by visions of her, granting him little or no rest at all, his body so bound up in knots he thought he’d never come undone again. He refused to take another to his bed to ease his frustration, either. He had sworn a vow to the little princess when he had promised to wed with her, and until such time as death claimed him or they absolved that vow, he would be touching no other female. It was simply killing him, however, that he couldn’t touch _her._

            And it was reaching a point where Éomer feared he might ignore his avowal not to put another woman through his mother and sister’s hell, that he might marry her anyway despite her distaste, if just for the chance of getting her in his bed. Éomer groaned again. He sounded the worst sort of lecher, and he felt worse. Yet nothing was helping.

            Éowyn had had her own suggestions, when she had noticed his despondency after the evening feast.

            It had been a grander affair than usual, as King Elessar and Queen Arwen had just arrived. His impossible sister had finally decided to make her announcement that night, to everyone’s overly shocked dismay and disbelief. Éomer suspected Faramir had had to have his discussion with more than just him. Yet Éowyn remained blissfully oblivious to the deception, and Éomer was truly glad for the happiness he could see in her face as she and Faramir stood to accept Aragorn’s toast.

            The dark-haired King of Gondor had raised his tankard and grinned.

            “I have wished you joy from the first moment I saw you, Lady Éowyn,” he murmured sincerely. “It does my heart well to see that you have found it. Congratulations, and may the babe you carry be blessed for all of its days.”

            The Queen had stood to raise her goblet as well, and Éomer had tensed at the mischievous twinkle in the normally serene elf-maid’s blue eyes.

            “Indeed, the Kingdom of Gondor shall be doubly blessed, in five months time.”

            Éomer had gaped, as many others did around him. It had taken a moment for Aragorn to catch up. He had whirled, eyes wide, and Arwen had burst out laughing at the stupefied expression on his face. The hall had erupted into thunderous cheering, so loud it was hard to hear anything over the din. In that moment King Elessar took his Queen into his arms and lovingly confirmed her condition, then turned back to the assembly to raise another toast, near to bursting his seams with pride. The Rohirrim were more than happy to comply.

            Yet afterward Éowyn had noticed that Éomer was less than delighted. His thoughts had turned dark, wondering if he married Lothíriel, would he even have a chance to sire his own children? Or would she avoid him and fight, and curse him to a cold and lonely future. His meddlesome sister would not leave it alone until he confided in her what troubled him. She had started to say something, then seemed to change her mind, and instead bade him to seek out the princess and speak to her himself.

            “If you are troubled by her feelings and intentions, then ask of them. Do not sit over here in the corner brooding yourself into an early grave _wondering_ what she is thinking. Go and find out!”

            Of course, it _sounded_ easy enough. The reality of it was far more complicated.

            Wherever he turned, it seemed the fates and everyone else around him were conspiring against him. When he did manage to pry himself free of council meetings and feast preparations, he could not seem to get Lothíriel alone long enough to speak to her. What was more, she obviously was not inclined to the notion herself. It seemed she went out of her way to prevent it. So where did that leave him now? Did he marry an unwilling woman, or did he break the betrothal and send her home?

            Éomer’s attention was suddenly caught by the sight of three lone riders approaching the gate. One looked to be a painfully white-robed individual astride a silver horse, barebacked. The other two were notably smaller, riding ponies that struggled to keep up with Shadowfax’s greater strides. Éomer smirked. Gandalf and the Hobbits had arrived. His smirk soon fell again, however, as he realized that they were the last of their guests. A huge feast would be held tonight, and tomorrow . . . he would either wed the Princess of Gondor or send her home.

 

* * *

            Lothíriel glanced up from where she was feeding Gyldenfax an apple when the sound of hooves reached her ears. She did just in time to see a white-robed man astride a saddleless silver stallion enter in a roll of thunder. The great horse reared to a stop well away from her. The robed man sighed contentedly, patting his horse, then he suddenly peered down at her and gave a warm smile.

            She returned it somewhat uncertainly, not sure who he was exactly. Her attention was taken off the bearded man when two smaller ponies rushed in after him.

            “Ah, here at last,” one of the small boys announced cheerily. “Just in time for elevensies.”

            He had curly brown hair and an elfin appearance, wearing a fine blue wool jacket and silver silk waistcoat beneath, a dark green scarf wound around his neck. His companion’s curls were more strawberry blonde, wearing a dark maroon jacket and a gold waistcoat. Both had on black knee trousers, and they both had furry bare feet she suddenly realized with a gasp. Their ears were also large and pointed. They must be two of the Halflings that her brothers had told her about, not children as she’d first assumed. Hobbits of the Shire.

            “They don’t _have_ elevensies here, Pip,” the blonde one droned with a roll of his eyes, then he dismounted his gray pony. The one he’d called Pip got a rather disgruntled look on his face, then heaved a sad sigh and carefully got off his chestnut pony.

            “No elevensies,” he groaned, “no second breakfast, no dinner _and_ supper. It’s just not natural, I tell you. I’m _starving_ , and now I’ll have to wait at least three _hours_ before the feast!”

            The older man glanced down at his companions and shook his head with a sigh and a muttered, “Hobbits.”

            Then he dismounted his huge stallion, and she noticed then the pearly white staff he had in one hand and the sword strapped around his waist. Something about that tickled her brain, yet she still couldn’t quite place it. He patted the horse again and murmured something to it she didn’t catch, and then the silvery-white creature ambled right into an empty stall all on his own.

            Rohirrim stable boys came to see the ponies unsaddled and cared for. Meanwhile, the blonde had noticed her standing a little ways away. He cocked his head slightly, then suddenly reached out and tugged on the older man’s robes. The man bent down, and the blonde murmured something. The bearded man glanced at her, smiled a little, then nodded. The Hobbit grinned, then motioned to his friend and both of them started toward her. The white robed man just chuckled and turned to leave the stable.

            Lothíriel soon found herself being sized up by two little men no taller than her breastbone.

            “Hello my lady,” the blonde one called. “Given your manner of dress and colorings, I assume that you must be the Gondorian princess that Éomer is to wed.”

            “I am she,” she confirmed somewhat uncertainly, her hand still resting on Gyldenfax’s neck. “I am the Lady Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth.”

            At this their grins broadened.

            “Well, it is an honor to meet you,” the other piped up.

            “I am Meriadoc Brandybuck, _Knight_ of Rohan,” the blonde announced officiously.

            “And I am Peregrin Took, Guard of the Citadel of Minas Tirith,” the other cut in eagerly, obviously struggling to sound as important if not more so than his fellow. They both extended their hands and, bemused, Lothíriel found herself shaking them both. The blonde chuckled then.

            “You can just call us Merry and Pippin though, everyone else does.” She nodded.

            “I am honored to meet you, sirs,” she murmured. “Ah . . . who was the man who accompanied you?”

            “Oh, that’s just Gandalf,” Pippin announced with a dismissive wave of his hand. Her eyes rounded.

            “The White Wizard? Mithrandir?” They both nodded, oblivious.

            Lothíriel groaned. She had just been in the presence of one of the most powerful and influential beings on Middle Earth, and she had stood there staring at him as if he were some nameless traveler. Perhaps that was why he had smiled at her, amused at her lack of manners or intelligence.

            “So, what brings you to Rohan and Éomer’s company?” Merry questioned eagerly.

            “We were most curious to find out just what sort of woman would brave a man like _him,”_ Pippin cut in.

            Lothíriel frowned. “And what is wrong with Eo—the King?” she quickly corrected herself, blushing. The Hobbits didn’t seem to notice her misstep, shrugging nearly in synchronization.

            “Nothing really, except that he’s a mite . . . .” Merry glanced at Pippin for assistance. They shrugged again, then turned back with a mischievous twinkle in their eyes and announced together,

            “Grumpy.”

            “If I am grumpy,” came a deep growl from behind her, “it is from having to deal with exasperatingly annoying Hobbits like you.”

            Lothíriel whirled, heart in her throat. For a moment she thought that Éomer might truly be wroth. But his black look lasted only until both of the Halflings in question called his name excitedly and then rushed forward. She watched, bemused, as the King of Rohan grinned and knelt to the ground so that he could accept Merry’s warm hug of obvious friendship, and Pippin’s hearty handshake.

            She realized then that they must have seen him approaching, and had said those things only to tease him. She shook her head a little, for the moment forgotten by the other three. It boggled her mind that anyone would dare to tease a man such as Éomer. Yet it obviously did him good. For just a moment, the darkness that had lurked in his eyes of late had faded, his smile was just a little easier to come, and he actually looked his relatively young twenty-nine years.

            “You three are the last to arrive,” Éomer was saying pleasantly, getting back to his full height. “Faramir and my sister, as well as Aragorn and Lady Arwen are already here.”

            “Excellent! I should like the chance to see Faramir again,” Pippin exclaimed, and Merry nodded.

            “Aye, and Lady Éowyn as well. We have to give our congratulations. Gandalf said that she is expecting her first child.”

            At that Éomer laughed. “Poor Éowyn, it seems only she thought her pregnancy was still a secret.”

            “Where are you off to, then?” Merry questioned, taking note of Éomer’s manner of dress, which was less fancy than usual now that he was a King. The blonde man shrugged.

            “I was thinking of taking Firefoot outside the city walls for a while.” Lothíriel tensed as he suddenly glanced in her direction. “Perhaps the princess would like to accompany me.”

            A ride outside the city sounded heavenly after nearly a week of being practically confined to her room. It was one of the reasons she had risked Elphir’s displeasure by sneaking out here to the stables by herself in the first place. She couldn’t give into the temptation, however. So instead she bowed her head.

            “I am sorry my lord, perhaps another time. I . . . I do not feel so well. I think I will retire back to my room until tonight.”

            She quickly turned about, then hurried back out of the stables. Therefore she completely missed the Hobbits’ shared looks of confusion, or Éomer’s black scowl.

* * *

            The feast that night was a grand affair. It was the pre-wedding celebration, she had been told, a taste of things to come on the morrow. Ale and good food were plentiful, and in the very center of the hall the tables had been cleared away from the hearth and a merry round dance was currently being preformed along with minstrel’s instruments.

            Meduseld seemed stuffed to its capacity, as everyone who could manage to get invited was here. Kings and wizards rubbed elbows with soldiers and common men, and the mood of the hall was undeniably festive.

            One good thing about the amount of people was that it had been quite simple to become lost in the press and overlooked.

            Lothíriel sagged with relief near the perimeter of the room, half-hidden in the shadows. She let out a deep sigh, praying that her nerves might one day come unwound and she would again remember the feel of tranquility and contentment. Right now they were nothing more than a distant memory.

            Having to stand on the dais earlier, in between her father and Éomer had been a trying experience. The tension in the room had been almost palpable as the King of Rohan had officially announced their betrothal and his intentions to make the union official on the morrow. She had done her best to maintain her serene mask, yet it was very hard, especially when the feeling of the room had been anything but joyous. If anything, the people of Rohan seemed skeptical at best, hostile at worst. Her very worst fears confirmed.

            She raised a hand to her elaborate hair dressing, wincing as the weight and the pins were beginning to make her scalp sting. Despite Freda’s reluctance, Lothíriel had insisted on the complicated style, though now she was beginning to regret it. Her thigh-length hair had been completely bound up in intricate coils, held in place by sapphire-topped pins, jeweled strings and silver netting, matching the deep sapphire velvet and silver silk gown she was wearing. She had looked a vision in the looking glass she had brought with her from Dol Amroth, yet now she felt over-dressed and out of place among the other Rohirrim women. Only Lady Éowyn, Queen Arwen and her sister-in-law had dressed anywhere near as fancily as she had, and even they had not gone to such lengths.

            She had heard no complaints as to her look, yet Lothíriel couldn’t help but feel like a fool. She stared out at the happy people surrounding her, and very suddenly she felt near tears.

            “Lady Lothíriel.”

            The princess gasped so hard she nearly choked, whirling to see Éomer standing in the shadows of one of the larger pillars behind her, largely hidden from the rest of the room. It was one thing for her to disappear in the crowd, but how a man so large or so important managed to skulk around and remain completely unnoticed she would never know. “Lothí, come,” he suddenly urged, his face and his voice strangely fierce. “I would speak with you alone for a moment. Now.”

            The look on his face and the sound of his voice whispering her pet name was nearly stronger than she could bear. Yet she held firm somehow, desperately trying to remain strong.

            “I cannot, my lord,” she whispered back, praying no one near by would turn to witness their covert conversation. His expression darkened. Desperate to make him understand, she sent him a pleading glance. “Please, sire, it would not be proper!” He scowled then, his anger coming full out.

            _“Hang_ proper!”

            Before Lothíriel could even blink, Éomer reached down and took her by the wrist, faster than an adder strike. She couldn’t even manage to yelp in protest, as in the very next breath the larger man was yanking her into the shadows and out of the hall completely.

 

* * *

            Despite the young King’s best efforts, his departure did not go completely unnoticed. Riana turned when she felt her husband’s body go completely stiff at her side. She glanced up and saw his expression one of rigid anger, eyes seething. She turned quickly to see where it was he was staring, and just managed to catch a glimpse of Lord Éomer disappearing down a darkened hallway, pulling Lothíriel off behind him. She smiled at the sight, then reached out and grabbed Elphir’s tunic when he made to go after them.

            “Release me, Riana,” he growled. She met his glower with her own pointed stare however, her grip remaining firm.

            “Leave them be, Elphir,” she advised softly.

            “He cannot just drag her off into who knows where—,”

            “In several hours time he will be her husband,” she interrupted sternly, frowning. “You have already risked much, interfering as you have. Elphir . . . you are going to have to learn to let her go. Lothíriel is a woman now, or soon will be. She cannot remain your little Lothí forever.”

            Where most would have seen an overprotective, stodgy man concerned only with reputations, Riana saw a fiercely loving brother terrified to loose his baby sister to another man. She saw the pain flash in his silver eyes, and the indecision. Her smile was sad as she reached up, laying her palm across his cheek, fingers sifting through his black curls.

            “I know it is hard, beloved, but it is for the best. Trust her to know how to make the right decisions for herself. _Let her go.”_

            Elphir hesitated a moment longer, then his entire body loosened again with a weary sigh. He nodded, though obviously pained. Then he smiled a little, and raised his hand to hers. At first she thought he would pull it away, though she would not have been offended. Riana had learned long ago that Elphir was not a man who easily showed softer emotions or affection in public. He was not nearly so shy behind closed doors, however, and she had two healthy babies to attest to that fact. That was enough for her.

            Yet he surprised her this time by merely capturing her hand in his, then he turned his head to press a kiss to the center of her palm.

            “I do not know where I would be without you, _ninorë,”_ he murmured for her alone, his deep voice gruff with emotion. Riana felt her eyes tear, but her smile was as wide and light-hearted as ever.

            After all, her gruff husband would be a very sad man indeed without her constant teasing to force him out of his black moods.

            “You would be alive and well I am sure, my lord,” she murmured, eyes twinkling. “But I venture to say you would not be near as happy.” He chuckled, then bent to press a kiss to her brow.

            “And I venture to say that you would be right.”


	9. Of Kings and Queens

            At first all Lothíriel could do was stumble after him, nearly jogging in an effort to keep up with his longer strides as he pulled her through the darkened, deserted halls of Meduseld.

            “My lord?” she hissed after a moment. “My lord! Éomer! What are you _doing?!”_

            “I will have a moment to speak to you alone, by _Béma,”_ she heard him growl, his stride not faltering, “if it is the last thing I do on this Middle-Earth.”

            Lothíriel was given no other chance to object. She was handily propelled through the passages, until they suddenly emerged out into the night air.

            The winds whipped past, cool but not quite cold enough to be uncomfortable, her sapphire skirts fluttering restlessly against her legs. Éomer had brought them out of a small passageway practically hidden, and out into what seemed to be a secluded garden to one side of the Hall. It had fallen into some disrepair, a little overgrown and ill-managed for many years it seemed. Yet it must have once been a very cozy spot, with several trees that would make excellent shady retreats if pruned properly, little pathways made of cobbles and intricately carved wooden benches well-worn from weather and age.

            Éomer pulled her a little farther into the small glade, then released her and turned back. His expression was tense in the moonlight, but determined.

            “If you are against this marriage, I would have you speak plainly now before it is too late.”

            Lothíriel gaped, stunned. _“What?”_

            “Do not act so surprised, princess,” he bade somewhat harshly. “How else am I to have taken your drawing away, from me and everything else around you? Your cool words? Your staunch determination not to be anywhere near me unless absolutely necessary and in the company of no less than twenty others!” Lothíriel opened her mouth to defend herself but he continued heatedly, not giving her the chance. “I asked Faramir the day after we passed under the mountain if you could be happy here. If you were truly at ease with the thought of marrying me and becoming the next Queen of the Riddermark. And he told me that you were, but nothing you have said or done since then has convinced me. In fact it has done nothing but the exact opposite. And I _will not_ watch another woman die of despair. I will not!”

            She was more than taken aback by his sudden vehemence, but it was the shadow in his eyes, the hurt of an old but not nearly forgotten pain in them, that was her undoing.

            “My cousin did not play you false, my lord,” she insisted at some length, forcing the words past her own timidity. “I might be a little . . . uncertain about the future and what it will expect of me as a Queen. Aye, and mayhap even a little afraid,” she revealed softly. “But I am not in danger of falling into life-threatening despair, as you put it. I am not against this marriage at all.”

            He looked exasperated now. “Then why do you avoid me at every turn?” Her cheeks heated a little, but she forced herself to continue.

            “I only thought to act as a proper noblewoman of Gondor, my lord. My brother Elphir bade me to be very careful until we were wed,” she revealed. “That I was to be under the close watch of the people of Rohan as well as King Elessar and Queen Arwen. He didn’t want them getting the wrong impression of me, or for ill-favored gossip to form.”

            “Your brother would do well to mind his own affairs,” Éomer snarled heatedly, suddenly looking furious. “‘King Elessar’ does not care a wit for the gossipmongers,” he continued firmly. “And neither do I. If I wish to see you before we are wed, what of it?”

            Here Lothíriel sighed and shook her head, wondering how she might put this as delicately as she could. “You might not care, my lord, but your _people_ will. It . . . it would reflect badly upon me. On us both.”

            At that the fire in him died. He became uncertain, then sad. She frowned as he suddenly seemed to slump, his proud shoulders falling inward. He stepped over to a bench then and heaved himself down upon it, as if he had suddenly lost the will to stand.

            “I know nothing of these matters,” he muttered after a time, tone bitter and heavy with sadness. “I know nothing of courtly ways or noble affairs. I am a warrior’s son, Lothíriel. I was not meant to be a King.” His dark eyes turned tortured. “It should have been Théodred. He should have led our host to the Black Gate. He should have taken up my Uncle’s seat in the Golden Hall. He should be the one you are to marry tomorrow. It is me only through unhappy chance.”

            Lothíriel hesitated for only a moment, then her own chin firmed with determination. She may not be brave or strong or courageous as Lady Éowyn, but no matter what strength flowed in her veins, she could not sit here and do nothing while a man such as this continued to think so low of himself. Not while she had breath left in her body. She crept forward and then after only a moment’s pause she sat down next to him on the bench. He barely acknowledged her presence, merely continued to stare forlornly at the dirt below.

            “You may be the son of a warrior,” she started after a moment, her soft voice trembling with conviction, “but he was a _great_ warrior. And your Uncle would not have named you his heir unless he thought you were worthy of the position.”

            Here she hesitated again, but only for a fraction of a moment before she firmed her resolve. She lifted her hand and set it instead atop his larger, darker one, where it rested on his knee. When he turned to look at her, for the first time in many days she did not look away. Instead she held his gaze, eyes earnest.

            “Court intrigue and diplomatic knowledge can be taught, my lord, and easily learned. What cannot be learned or taught is love of the land you serve and pride in the people you rule. And I have seen that in you, sire. It is in everything you do, every action you take.” Her fingers gripped his, almost unaware of what she was doing as she continued to let the words tumble from her lips. “You _love_ Rohan, my lord. That is what is most important in the end. I truly believe that one day, very soon, you will be a _great_ King of men. And no matter what my behavior has led you to believe these past few days, I . . . I do not regret that it is you I am to marry at all,” she finished in a rush.

            She swallowed a little in the heavy silence that followed, feeling her face start to burn. As Éomer continued to stare down at her, his expression unreadable, Lothíriel became aware of where her hand still rested. She hesitantly drew it back into her own lap, then bit her lip and glanced away. She let her eyes wander around her surroundings instead, in a desperate attempt to not appear so nervous and unsettled.

            Apparently she didn’t do so well.

            “Brave words should not be followed by such timid trembling,” he murmured. She tensed when his fingers suddenly took her by the chin, and gently forced her to turn back to him. He had moved closer, and the princess found with widened eyes that his face was now only mere inches from her own.

            “I believe that one day, very soon, you will be a _great_ Queen of the Mark,” he whispered playfully, yet his dark eyes were very serious and very intent. He leaned a little closer, and Lothíriel couldn’t seem to form a coherent thought or manage to breathe at all as he continued to speak in a husky growl, his moving lips nearly whispering across her own trembling ones. “And I do not regret that it is you I am to marry, either. Only . . . that I am to marry you tomorrow without knowing what your kisses taste like.”

            The heated look in his dark eyes left no doubt in her mind that the young King meant what he said.

            Lothíriel knew then what it felt like for one’s heart to stop. She was certain that hers missed at least three beats in her shock before it finally decided to start working again, now at double time and thundering against her ribs. She should probably protest. She was a princess after all, and princesses did _not_ let men kiss them before they were married. Yet, she was _almost_ married, after all, Lothíriel argued with her guilty conscience. And, Valar help her, she _wanted_ him to kiss her. She suddenly wanted it so badly she could scarcely think. There was only one tiny little problem.

            Lothíriel felt her face heat with embarrassment. “I . . . I have never . . . I-I do not know how,” she finally admitted in a shamed stammer. A brief moment of shock passed over his features before it was replaced by a look even more heated than before, this time tempered with a strange air of possessiveness.

            “Well then, little princess,” he murmured, one hand reaching up to brush her cheek, thumb skimming her jaw line before curling around to cup the back of her head, fingers burying in her pinned-up hair, “it shall be my deepest pleasure to teach you.”

            At once his own head canted slightly to the side and then Lothíriel jerked as those sinful lips teasingly rubbed against her own. A shock of sensation seemed to shoot through her at contact, and then began to thrum throughout her body as he continued to do so. Unbidden, a faint noise escaped her throat and passed her lips in the form of a breathy whimper. Her eyes slowly drifted shut of their own accord.

            An innocent, Lothíriel had no idea what to expect or what to do. She had never before dreamed such sensations were even possible. And the princess only knew one thing, that she never wanted him to stop whatever it was he was doing to her now.

            She could only sit there, frozen, as Éomer continued to rub fleeting kisses to her mouth, never lingering overly long as if he feared to frighten her. He pressed against her more firmly once, and drew her lower lip into his mouth for an instant, nipping dangerously before letting go. And then suddenly his tongue joined their play, flicking against her trembling lips as if testing her courage. Lothíriel gasped, more from the burst of tingling heat that erupted in the pit of her belly and beyond than from shock or fear that he’d done it.

            Slowly however, her dazed wonder began to turn into acute frustration. All this teasing—and she suddenly realized that that’s exactly what it was he was doing—was slowly driving her mad! Why wouldn’t he just kiss her properly? Her vexation made itself known in another noise, this one a more throaty moan. She leaned her weight forward a little, her body eagerly begging for what she as of yet had no idea how to voice.

            As if this had been the signal he’d been waiting for, Éomer suddenly pulled her even closer and then his mouth completely sealed over hers with a hoarse groan of his own. His tongue traced the trembling seam of her half-parted lips before plunging fully inside. Lothíriel stiffened a little with shock but the Horselord gave her no chance to pull away, no chance to regain her senses even a little as his tongue mated with hers; rubbing, thrusting, tangling with her own. The princess was only half aware of the way her head fell back boneless into the cradle of his larger palms, or of the way her tiny hands clenched and clung to the powerful line of his broad shoulders. All she could comprehend was heat and fire and a strange sense of wanting that she neither understood nor comprehended. Her whole body actually felt weakened with the deep throb of need that lanced through her body.

            When Éomer lifted up at last she could barely hold herself upright, and actually swayed a little toward him before she managed to regain control of herself.

            Her eyes widened then as sense and decorum returned, her pale face flushed deep scarlet. _Sweet merciful Valar . . . ._

 

* * *

            Éomer stared down into Lothíriel’s face as she fought to recover her wits and her breath, his own thick and harsh in his ears. He watched her soft, passion-drugged expression slowly melt into an endearingly mortified blush—one that bloomed from the top of her hairline down beyond the high-neck of her gown—and knew that he was well and truly lost, then. That nagging whisper of suspicion that had been eating at him ever since the look she’d given him outside the Dimholt had just been proven with an iron-clad surety.

He would never be able to give her up now.

Éomer was no young, untried boy. He had had several women in his twenty-nine years. Though admittedly none of them had been anything more than a passing dalliance, taken here or there when there was any moment of peace, if only to break the monotony of the warring and battles that had surrounded him all his life. Yet out of all the other women that he had ever touched or kissed, none of them had ever made him feel as though he were drowning. As if all sense and reason were suddenly snatched away. Éomer found himself seized instead by something base and primitive, where nothing else mattered but her. The knowledge that no other man had ever—or _would_ ever, if he had anything to say about it—touched her thus, that no other man had ever made those big blue-gray eyes of hers darken with need, that no other man had ever brought such a sweet blush to her high-curved cheeks, only seemed to make that dominant desire in him all the more fierce.

It awoke in him an almost desperate need to make her completely his, to mark her somehow so that she and everyone else would know that this woman belonged solely to him; him and no other. A need so strong that for a moment Éomer had trouble remembering just why he couldn’t give into it yet. When he did, he nearly groaned aloud with frustration, shifting in vain to try and relieve some of the uncomfortable pressure in his groin. Suddenly tomorrow afternoon seemed an eternity away.

Reining in his lust with some difficulty, Éomer finally decided to take pity on her acute mortification. He eased back, pulling his hands away from her face. Yet he was loathe to let her go completely, and found one of his hands slipping down to take possession of one of hers almost of it’s own will.

Then, “I trust that you enjoyed your first lesson,” he found himself murmuring, unable to keep himself from teasing her just a little.

Lothíriel groaned miserably at that, using her free hand to cover her eyes, sighing a little and causing him to chuckle. Yet she surprised him then by nodding, even through her blushing embarrassment. It was his turn to swallow a little uncomfortably then, viciously willing this new sense of wildness in him—which seemed to center from the throbbing bit of hardened flesh between his legs—to behave. Instead Éomer dragged in a deep lungful of cool air, then fished for something, anything else to try and focus on besides his future bride and the powerful effect she had on him.

“This was my grandmother’s garden,” he suddenly announced, somewhat randomly. She lowered her hand away from her face though, lifting up to him with that insatiable gleam of curiosity in her eyes that he was beginning to recognize. “My grandfather built it for her after they moved back to Edoras, from Gondor.”

“The King of Rohan lived in Gondor?” she questioned, bemused, and he nodded.

“Aye, my great-grandfather Fengel was not a very well-liked man. A greedy glutton who craved wealth, and fought often with his Marshals and his son. So my grandfather, Thengel, left Rohan as soon as he was old enough. He lived in Gondor instead—in the service of Turgel, the Steward of Gondor at the time. That is where he met my grandmother, Lady Morwen of Lossarnach. They had four children while they remained there, three girls and one boy; Eowine, Gléohild, Wídfara and Théoden. Yet when Fengel finally died, my grandfather was called back home to the Mark to become its King. Though he was reluctant to leave Gondor—as he had developed a fondness for the southern lands—he and his family did return, and he took up the King’s Seat.”

Éomer sighed, his eyes leaving her rapt face to gaze instead at the small little glade around them. It had been many years since anyone had really paid any attention to it. His uncle used to have it maintained out of respect and remembered love for his mother, yet when he fell ill no one else thought to do so. Then once the war had started in earnest, there simply hadn’t been any time to care about such things.

“My grandmother never really stopped grieving for the home she had left behind,” he continued then, tone soft. “She missed the vast greenery and beautiful gardens of Lossarnach—missed the peace and tranquility she had known there. So my grandfather had this place made for her, to try and soothe that need.”

“It is very lovely,” Lothíriel murmured, tone almost reverent. “It was a very thoughtful gift indeed.” She paused, then, “did it work?”

Éomer turned back to her, eyebrow lifted. “Did the garden soothe my grandmother’s yearnings for home?” When Lothíriel nodded, a wicked half-grin twisted his features. “Well, it was said my mother Théodwyn’s birth came exactly nine months after it was completed and revealed to her, so I would venture to say that it did.”

That got him another blush, but a tentative smile of shared humor as well.

Éomer turned slightly as the faint sound of revelry suddenly hit his ears, then sighed again. He had monopolized Lothíriel quite long enough, he supposed. Tonight’s feasting was meant more as a celebration for her, anyhow, since she wouldn’t be free to enjoy much of it tomorrow night. That thought started an avalanche of others, until Éomer was forced to stand suddenly before he gave into temptation and kissed her again. If he kissed her again, there was no telling where it might lead to this time.

He suddenly began to realize there might be something behind all of these stodgy rules and traditions after all.

“Come, Lothí,” he bade then, trying to clear the gruffness out of his voice with a clearing of his throat. “I have kept you hidden out here long enough. The others will begin to wonder where we have gotten off to.”

Lothíriel gasped suddenly and stood so quickly that he realized she had completely forgotten about where she was and what was going on beyond this little glade. The thought made him smile for some reason, something in his chest warming over. He waited until she finished patting down her hair from where he’d run his fingers through it and smoothing away the wrinkles in her velvet skirts. Then the King deftly maneuvered one of her hands into the crook of his arm before leading her back into Meduseld proper. Lothíriel was so very tiny and seemingly fragile walking there at his side, her slim fingers fluttering restlessly in the juncture of his elbow, and yet—despite the vast differences in their height, despite their opposed colorings and dress, there just seemed to be something so . . . _right_ about having her there. As if she truly belonged at his side, and that no one else would have ever done besides her.

Though neither of them realized it, as they walked together through the press in the Great Hall—too focused on appearing as though they had never left the gathering and that nothing at all was amiss—more than one person turned to admire the very handsome pairing that they made together. Lord Éomer—every inch of him tall, golden, masculine power—and Lady Lothíriel—delicate, dark, feminine grace—seemed made to fit together.

As the Rohirrim watched, their King bent down suddenly to murmur something in her ear, and their future Queen’s porcelain pale skin suddenly blushed a vivid pink. Yet the warm, wide, playful smile that slowly spread across her face did wonders to alleviate the impression of the cold, spiritless woman that they had begun to fear her to be.

Surely no one who smiled like that could be so heartless? And so the proud, distrustful Rohirrim began to allow that this Princess of the Sea might not make such a bad Queen of the Mark after all.


	10. Rohirrim Wedding

Lothíriel started a little at the hand that gently shook her arm. Her bleary eyes opened to see Freda hovering over her, her young face lit with ill-contained excitement.

“Come my lady,” she called in her breathy, sing-song voice, “it is time to start getting ready!”

Still groggy from sleep, for a moment Lothíriel just stared blankly at the child, wondering what it was time to get ready for. Then dawning hit, and she gasped, immediately feeling her heart begin to race. With excitement or dread, she wasn’t entirely sure. Maybe both.

Today was the day of her wedding to Éomer, Horse-Lord and King of the Riddermark.

Freda turned away to fetch the light morning repast that she’d brought with her while Lothíriel slowly sat up and did her best to shake free of the last vestiges of her dreams. She nibbled on the warm sweet cakes and fresh milk while Freda flitted here or there, gathering all the things she would need to see her lady properly made up for the occasion.

A few moments later, mistress Frecca entered, bidding her a cheerful good morning—which Lothíriel did her best to return. The older woman soon turned to help her daughter with the preparations.

Not long after that Lady Éowyn suddenly entered the chamber. She was already dressed in a fine pale green satin gown with her blonde hair pulled back, an intricate circlet of golden flowers across her brow, each with gleaming emerald jewels as their center. Then Riana, garbed in resplendent indigo silk overlain with silver netting, her brilliant red hair pulled back into several coils and held there with silver pins, and a matching, intricate woven band of the same around her brow.

Their near-breathless excitement and giddy anticipation was infectious, so that much of her fear was soon forgotten, at least for now. Instead Lothíriel found herself gently bullied out of bed and then helped into one of her finer snow-white chemises. Yet when Freda suddenly produced the mithril gown, she shook her head.

“Ah, no Freda. I have changed my mind. I think I will wear the silver velvet one instead.”

“Lothí!” Riana protested immediately, face aghast. “I thought you wanted desperately to wear your mother’s gown at your own wedding! You spent months and months altering it!” Lothíriel blanched, then sighed.

“I did wish to wear it, Riana, but . . . I am afraid it will be seen as too much. The Rohirrim have suffered much this past year, and I do not wish to appear so pretentious. The silver velvet will be fine.”

Éowyn and Riana shared a knowing glance, then the blonde stepped closer and seemed to consider the gown hanging from the young maid’s fingers with serious eyes. She suddenly turned back after several moments.

“No Lothí, I think that it must be this gown that you wear today,” the White Lady pronounced, tone firm and broking no argument. “This gown is too fine a treasure to be kept hidden away, and your father and brothers will be fair bursting with pride to see you so well-garbed in the colors and emblem of your homeland. It will help ease the sting of losing you to another man and kingdom. That, and the love and consideration you put into altering such a beloved heirloom is apparent in every fold of this fabric. I think that _that_ will be more telling than any misgivings anyone might have as to it’s costliness.” Éowyn tapped a nail to her lower lip for a moment in thought, then brightened. “And I have just the thing to keep your appearance from seeming too elaborate or conspicuous, if that is your wish. We will dress your hair in the Rohirrim way, instead of the Gondorian coils and netting. I think that will be just the thing to soften your look, to help you appear more approachable and less haughty.”

Lothíriel remained dubious, but the others were quick and eager to agree, so she finally bowed to their combined desires and went along with it. Freda and Frecca helped her into the glimmering white-silver gown—which felt as light as a breeze despite its many embellishments—fastening the row of tiny catches at her back beneath the cape and train. The neckline swooped low across her breast, the edges not quite covering the top of her slim white shoulders, the under-sleeves long and fitted until the heel of her palms, the false sleeves over them wide and hanging well to the ground. The brocaded bodice of the gown hugged her slim figure closely, all the way down well past her hips before the fabric finally loosened to drape in a glistening tide to the floor at her slippered feet.

At Éowyn’s urging, her dark hair was completely unbound and brushed until it too gleamed as brilliantly as any jewel in the firelight, the faintly curled tips brushing the backs of her knees. The only adornment they put in was a beautiful headpiece that held back her hair and outlined the sides of her face with what appeared to be delicate silver, feathery wings unfurled—the longest of the feathers framing her pale cheeks near to the corner of her lips. Strands of glittering silver beads and teardrop sapphires draped from it onto her brow and down into her ink colored hair.

Lothíriel stood and stared at her reflection in the polished silver looking-glass, somewhat stunned at what a difference this gown and the hairstyle made. The cut of the fine dress was very feminine and provocative without being blatant, hugging her curves and showing them off at their best, but still appearing stately while doing so. And with her hair loose, it suddenly gave more substance to her small frame, so that she didn’t seem quite so rail-thin and waif-like. Instead she looked . . . older somehow, less of an awkward girl-child and more a woman-in-the-making.

The others stood behind her, admiring and excited.

“You look a vision, Lothí,” Riana whispered, standing behind her. “Your father and brothers will scarce recognize you, I think. You have grown up while none of us were looking.” The redhead gripped her shoulders in a comforting squeeze, her green eyes becoming glassy with unshed tears. “I shall miss you terribly, little sister.”

Lothíriel turned and buried her face in Riana’s shoulder, suddenly fighting tears of her own. “And I you,” the younger girl whimpered. They stayed that way for a moment, until someone was suddenly tugging on her hair.

“Alright, enough of that,” Éowyn suddenly muttered somewhat brusquely. Yet when Lothíriel lifted up it was to see the White Lady struggling with the moisture gathering in her own eyes, though stubbornly attempting to keep them at bay. “No more sad tears, or you will have me blubbering right along with the rest of you. I cannot be held accountable due to my delicate condition,” the proud female announced then, chin lifting stubbornly and ignoring the others’ smiles and chuckles. “Babes make overly-emotional harpies out of the best of us.”

It seemed an eternity and an instant, all rolled into one, before someone was knocking on the door and saying that the ceremony was soon to begin. Lothíriel tried her best to smile, accepting Éowyn and Riana’s last minute hugs and well wishes before they slipped out of the door. Then she took a deep breath, shored up what little there was to be had of her courage and then left the room as well. It was to find her father standing in the hall ready to escort her, dressed in a fine black-blue sapphire and silver velvet tunic emblazoned with the silver swan of Dol Amroth and the white tree and seven stars of Gondor.

Imrahil’s expression was one of stunned awe as she stepped out to meet him. Her father reached up with a faintly trembling hand, his fingers carefully tracing a string of silver beads that hung across her cheek, curving around the line of her jaw until he reached her chin. He gently forced her to lift her head and meet his stare. Then he seemed to force a small smile, though his eyes were conflicting between great sadness and painful pride.

“You look just like your mother,” he whispered hoarsely then, “and so very beautiful.”

And suddenly Lothíriel wanted to cry again. Her father was a very warm and affectionate man compared to most, but he had never once likened her to her mother—Princess Aerberethiel—before, a woman who was said to rival the beauty of the elves for which she was named. She swallowed with some difficulty, giving her own wobbly smile through her tears, her hands lifting to touch his own.

“Thank-you, Papa,” she whispered back, her voice just as choked with emotion as his had been.

They shared another silent moment before Imrahil finally shook himself and recovered his equilibrium. He held out his arm. “Come, daughter,” he murmured softly. “It is time.”

Lothíriel took a deep, trembling breath for fortification, then hooked her hand into the crook of his elbow. The Prince of Dol Amroth began leading her down the corridors of Meduseld then, and Lothíriel suddenly noticed through her nerves that it had been decorated well for the occasion. Huge green, red and gold banners hung in great festoons, held in place by bouquets of white flowers and matching satin ribbons—with the massive white horse of Rohan blazoned across many of their fronts.

The halls were completely empty, with no one else wandering about. No doubt everyone was waiting for them in the main hall. When they reached a side door, her father suddenly hesitated. Imrahil turned to her, his expression troubled.

“Lothíriel,” he murmured, reaching over with his free hand to cover her smaller one resting on his arm. “Are you certain that you will be happy here?” he questioned then.

Lothíriel opened her mouth to answer, yet at that moment her mind suddenly drifted back to last night. Back to the moment when she had begun to truly believe that marriage to the powerful King of the Mark would not be such a burden after all. And instead of her polite affirmation, she ended up blurting out, “his kisses are very nice.”

And then her eyes widened and her cheeks stung with mortification, not even daring to believe she had just said that out loud to her _father,_ of all men. Yet instead of become upset, Imrahil merely blinked down at her in surprise. Then he very slowly started to smile. He patted her hand, letting out a soft chuckle.

“I am glad to hear it, Lothí. Very glad indeed.”

Then her father was opening the smaller door and pulling her out of it, onto the broad stone terrace outside. As they circled around to the front of the hall, the guards watched her pass—some unseasoned enough to let their eyes widen and their mouths open with shock, though she wasn’t entirely certain where that reaction stemmed from. When they reached the front, she was confronted with what seemed to be a sea of expectant faces; all those who could not find room or admittance inside the Great Hall itself she would imagine. As the bright mid-morning sunlight hit her gown—setting the brilliant mithril on fire and the sapphires in her hair to gleaming like tiny pinpoints of blue starlight—audible gasps and murmurings of awe went up throughout the press.

Lothíriel wasn’t given much time to bask in their reaction, as her father was soon pulling her toward the main double-doors. The Door Wardens standing point there stepped forward and then threw them wide with a loud, groaning flair. As one, the press of bodies inside stood up and then turned back to face her. Lothíriel felt a brief moment of panic at so many people suddenly staring at her, most of them Rohirrim that she did not recognize.

Though she was a Princess, Belfalas and the city of Dol Amroth were somewhat sheltered compared to most fiefs of Gondor, and she had never been one to enjoy being the center of attention anyhow. Yet she was soon to be a Queen, Lothíriel reminded herself sternly, she would have to get used to this somehow. Then she willed her knees to stop shaking so badly, though she wasn’t very successful at it.

Imrahil’s hand, still atop hers, gently squeezed her trembling fingers for comfort before he began leading them inside the Great Hall. Her father led her down the small aisle between rows and rows of benches, toward the back of the hall where Mithrandir and the King of Rohan awaited them. Her widened eyes flickered here or there, catching familiar visages in the sea of faces around her. She saw her brothers first, Amrothos and Erchirion, both looking uncommonly solemn as she passed. She even thought she detected a hint of glassy moisture Amro’s blue-gray eyes, but she couldn’t be certain, as they were all too quickly past.

Riana was next, standing next to her husband. The former was holding Finuviel and crying openly, though her smile was wide and cheery just the same. Elphir stood tall and proudly at her side, holding little Alphros in his arms. His face was unreadable, but Lothíriel could see the tenderness and pride in his pewter eyes that he couldn’t bring himself to show openly. Her nephew craned his dark-haired head around to see her pass, then suddenly grinned and waved at her, as if only just recognizing her. The innocent exuberance of the action eased some of her terrible tension, allowing a small smile to form on her otherwise pale and drawn face.

Then she saw her cousin Faramir, standing beside his wife Éowyn, who was doing her best to hide the tear drops that kept trying to fall out of her eyes. The White Lady gave her a broad smile instead. Faramir’s smile was softer, more subtle, but he nodded to her as well—as if to give her courage. Lothíriel was very grateful for it.

Next were the two little Hobbits, Merry and Pippin, who looked so out of place among the Rohirrim in their silk waistcoats and knee breeches. Yet they stood comfortably beside King Aragorn and Queen Arwen, eyes bright and smiles genuine. The King of the Reunited Kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor was also smiling, his gray eyes gentle. And the Queen, almost painfully beautiful, caught her eyes and held them as she passed. Lothíriel couldn’t be certain, but she could almost swear she heard a voice in her mind while those powerful blue orbs locked with her own.

_Take heart, sea-maiden, and you will find your courage._

And then her father was leading them beyond the press, up onto the front dais where her soon-to-be husband awaited her. Lothíriel hadn’t noticed much about Éomer until now, too caught up in her own nerves. Yet suddenly her eyes were filled with him and she gasped a little, caught somewhat off guard.

 _By the Valar, he is so handsome,_ was her first, dazed thought.

The young King looked every inch the part today, dressed from head to toe in fine velvets and linen rather than the plainer wool he normally wore. His overtunic was a very dark—nearly black—green velvet, the sleeves ending at his shoulders and the hem falling well past his knees, the hems of both edged in the intricate white and gold knot work brocade that the Rohirrim culture fancied. The longer sleeves of his under tunic were a crisp white linen, clasped tightly at his wrists but otherwise loose around his thick arms. Both were girded at his narrow waist with a thin brown belt, with the King’s sword—Guthwine—hanging from it’s scabbard on his right hip. His trousers were the same blackish green as the overtunic, fitted into highly polished black boots. A rich forest green cloak bordered in white and gold—of which she remembered him wearing from the first day she met him—was fastened around his shoulders. This time the voluminous material was held in place by two large golden studs in the shape of curled horse heads, held together by a thick rope of the same that spanned the front of his chest. And finally, what was perhaps the most striking about him now, was that his blonde hair was brushed back and tamed by a thick golden crown that sat low on his brow, wrought in ornate carvings and gleaming blood-red jewels.

Éomer King stood tall and confident before the assembled, dark eyes strangely intent, with an unshakable aura of power and authority that seemed to ooze from his every pore. No one who gazed at him now could ever doubt that this man was indeed the rightful Lord of the Riddermark.

Lothíriel allowed her father to lead her up the three steps of the dais in somewhat of a daze. She searched the face of this King of Men in front of her, desperately trying to find anything familiar in him to ease her nervous fear. Yet she saw nothing that soothed her.

Imrahil bowed his head slightly, then lifted her nearly numb hand away from his elbow and presented it to Éomer. The Horse-Lord nodded in return, then took her hand in his much larger, darker one. As soon as his grip closed around her fingers she tensed a little, stunned by how much warmer his skin was than hers, almost hot in comparison. It immediately began chasing away the icy numbness that had besieged her ever since stepping into the Great Hall. The King used his grip on her to very gently tug her forward until she stood at his side, then he tucked her hand in his elbow instead.

And then—just before he turned forward to face the White Wizard—the man winked at her. Actually _winked_ at her!

Just like that, the spell was broken. The stranger in King’s finery suddenly became the man that she knew, right before her eyes; the man who had kissed her senseless the night before as they sat tucked away in a hidden garden, then playfully teased her about it afterward.

Lothíriel felt her cheeks heat, yet was suddenly hard pressed not to smile.

Mithrandir motioned, and those behind them all sat down again. The tall man, garbed from head to toe in painful white, let his eyes drift across the assembled in the moment of silence that followed. Then he glanced at Éomer, and then to her. When his eyes fell on her, his mouth curved into another one of those small, knowing smiles. And suddenly Lothíriel didn’t feel near so nervous or afraid.

After a moment he raised his arms high, and began speaking the traditional words of a Rohirrim wedding ceremony, which was spoken entirely in Rohirric. While she might have begun to pick up more and more words and phrases this past week, Lothíriel still hadn’t learned enough to understand all of what was said. Yet she had studied the ceremony enough to know the general idea of what was going on. Therefore she wasn’t surprised when Elfhelm approached from one side, holding a large golden goblet carved in the likeness of several animals, currently filled with red wine. With the White Wizard murmuring the proper benediction throughout, the goblet was given first to Éomer—who took a small sip—then to her, to symbolize that they would now be ‘sharing’ in whatever life might bring in the future.

Elfhelm stepped back, and then Erkenbrand appeared from the other side of the hall, holding a long bit of cloth in his hand. The traditional binding ribbon of Éomer’s family—and the royalty of Rohan—no doubt. It was obviously very old, and very lovely; a long strip of deep emerald velvet stitched in white and gold, with horses running down its length.

At Mithrandir’s instruction, Lothíriel and Éomer turned to face one another. Éomer held out his right hand, palm up, and Lothíriel immediately placed her much smaller one atop it, palm down. And then Erkenbrand approached, carefully winding the velvet ribbon around their clasped hands, three times over, symbolically ‘binding’ the couple together amidst Mithrandir’s Rohirric blessing. Then all grew quiet again, and everyone turned to her.

This had been the part that she’d been dreading. Knowing the traditions, Lothíriel had been practicing her vows for months and praying that she wouldn’t shame herself by murdering the pronunciation during the ceremony. At her small hesitation, Éomer’s strong fingers gently rubbed across the inside of her wrist, as if to comfort her. Drawing on his strength, she took a deep breath, opened her mouth and then forced the words out. Surprisingly her voice shook only a little, though she couldn’t bring herself to lift her eyes any higher than his sun-kissed throat.

_“Nú ðá án heorte, á licfæt, á ingemynd. Ær æðeltungol ástyntan glowende, ic neo gæðed.”_

Gandalf smiled, nodding slightly and Lothíriel visibly loosened with relief, now that the hardest part of this was behind her. Then the White Wizard turned to Éomer. As the powerful Horse-Lord repeated the vows, Lothíriel thought about what they really meant, and felt a small shiver race down her spine. Especially as Éomer’s dark eyes were focused on hers and strayed nowhere else, his deep voice rolling over her like a warm caress.

_Now of one heart, one body, one mind. Until the stars stop burning, I am sworn._

Mithrandir nodded again, then murmured out a quick prayer of solemnity in elvish before raising his arms high.

“Thus do I now announce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride, Éomer King.”

Whatever reservations Lothíriel might have had about kissing him in front of a room full of people were promptly forgotten when the powerful lord used their still-joined hands to tug her forward. His warm mouth settled over hers with a firm surety, the other arm wrapping around her waist and bending her back slightly and causing a thrill of sensation to lance through her belly. Lothíriel was so engrossed into his kiss that she didn’t even hear the thunderous roar of cheering that suddenly sounded, which threatened to take the very roof off of the Golden Hall with it’s exuberance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said before, this ISN'T the planned end of the fic despite how it might seem. Not sure when I'll continue, but the plan is there. Hope you enjoyed what's here so far at least, feel free to leave comments or kudos to tell me so. :)


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